THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


A    PARADISE    IN 
PORTUGAL 


BY 

MARK   SALE 


NEW  YORK 

THE   BAKER  &  TAYLOR  COMPANY 

LONDON:    ANDREW  MELROSE 

1911 


PRINTED  BY 

HAZELL,  WATSON  AND  VINEY,  LD. 

LONDON   ANT)  AYLESBURY, 

ENGLAND. 


THE   PHILOSOPHER, 

IN  ALL  HONOUR  AND   ESTEEM 


DV525 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.    How   WE    FOUND    OUR  "  WAL- 

DEN" 1 

II.  OUR  NEIGHBOURS       .        .        .11 

III.  OUR  SURROUNDINGS   ...      23 

IV.  OURSELVES  AND  OUR  FOOD        .      35 
V.  DOMESTICITIES    ....       46 

VI.  ONE  OF  OUR  SUNDAYS        .        .       53 

VII.  YOUNG  PORTUGAL       ...      64 

VIII.  SUMMER  TIME      ....      73 

IX.  BIRTHDAY  EGOTISMS   ...      86 

X.  THE  POST  OFFICE  BABY     .        .101 

XI.  SICK-ROOM  SOLACE     .        .        .     106 

XII.  ON  THE  SHORE           .        .        .114 

vii 


M3117" 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

XIII.  SUMMER  INCIDENTS  .        .        .122 

XIV.  QUIET  DAYS      ....     129 
XV.    THE  ETERNAL  FEMININE  .        .136 

XVI.    AUTUMN 149 

XVII.    CHRISTMAS         .        .        .        .158 
XVIII.    FAREWELL  167 


A    SHADOWED 
PARADISE 


CHAPTER    I 


HOW   WE   FOUND   OUR   "  WALDEN  " 


"  For  to  admire  and  for  to  see, 
For  to  be'old  this  world  so  wide, 
It  never  done  no  good  to  me, 
But  I  can't  drop  it  if  I  tried." 

WE  were  always  as  poor  as  the  proverbial 
church  mouse,  but  Kipling's  immortal  lines 
fitly  express  the  spirit  in  which  we  have  directed 
our  lives. 

When  The  Philosopher  and  I  first  became 
comrades,  he  said :  "  There  are  just  two  sorts 
of  people  in  the  world,  you  know — the  people 
who  make  money  and  the  people  who  spend 
what  the  others  have  made.  Both  health  and 
temperament  cause  me  to  belong  to  the  latter 
class,  my  dear." 

1 


2  A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

As  I  understood  him,  and  as  I  cared  very 
much  for  him,  I  was  not  so  shocked  as  perhaps 
I  ought  to  have  been  at  this  admission  ;  and 
I  then  and  there  agreed  to  join  him  in  this 
reprehensible  mode  of  life,  rather  than  condemn 
him  to  a  desk  in  some  stuffy  London  office  for 
the  purpose  of  keeping  up  "an  establishment  " 
and  a  bank  balance. 

The  youngest  of  his  family,  born  when  his 
father  was  dying  of  consumption,  he  had  in- 
herited a  measure  of  "  unhealth  "  and  insomnia 
which  in  a  less  sweet  and  philosophical  dis- 
position would  have  degenerated  into  chronic 
invalidism  ;  but  which,  in  his  case,  in  spite  of 
a  wrecked  career,  was  faced  with  resolute  pluck 
and  an  unfailing  effort  to  "  make  the  best  of 
a  bad  job."  Freedom,  sunshine,  and  fresh  air 
were  the  necessities  of  life  to  him,  but  all  our 
other  requirements  were  as  modest,  and  our 
happiness  was  easily  perfected.  We  were  con- 
tent in  each  other's  society  ;  our  daily  needs 
were  of  the  simplest ;  and  for  occupation,  The 
Philosopher  painted,  while  I  wrote  humble 
little  stories.  So  it  came  about  that  we 
tramped  this  grand  old  world,  viewing  its 
wonders,  and  sunning  ourselves  under  its 
brightest,  bluest  skies,  with  a  yearly  income 
upon  which  most  people  would  have  been 


HOW  WE  FOUND  OUR  "  WALDEN  '      3 

stagnating  in  genteel  poverty  in  some  dull 
suburb  or  lifeless  village  of  the  dear,  but  grey, 
homeland. 

Thus  we  wandered  happily  in  many  lands, 
through  long,  scented  summer  days,  and  brief 
winter  brightness  and  warmth,  doing  no  harm 
to  our  fellows,  if  but  little  good.  Even  positive 
good,  perhaps,  if  the  sight  of  simple  happiness 
and  content,  pleasant  comradeship  and  bright 
faces,  can  count  as  any  good  in  a  world  where 
so  many  folks  are  sick  and  sorry,  and  some — 
soured,  narrow,  and  discontented. 

Until,  at  last,  one  dark  day,  the  frail  little 
ship  of  our  fortunes  foundered  and  went  down. 
It  is  a  tale  too  often  told  :  philosophers  are 
not  the  metal  out  of  which  successful  specula- 
tors are  made.  A  series  of  investments  failing 
in  their  promise  of  certain  dividends,  a  plausi- 
ble business  friend,  a  prospect  of  doubling,  nay, 
trebling,  our  little  remaining  capital — any 
reader,  smiling  a  compassionate,  superior  smile, 
can  outline  the  sequel — and  we  were  left  face 
to  face  with  a  grim  guest  whom  we  had  never 
entertained  before.  A  guest  who  greeted  our 
morning  waking,  who  sat  down  to  meat  with 
us,  who  followed  us  into  the  streets  and  the 
woods,  who  lurked  by  our  fireside  in  the  twi- 
light, who  intruded  himself  between  us  and 


4  A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  pages  of  our  book,  and  who  would  scarce 
permit  us  to  sleep  at  night  for  his  persistent 
company. 

But  if  philosophers  make  but  a  sorry  fight 
in  the  scramble  for  riches,  they  can  at  any 
rate  show  how  adversity  is  to  be  met — with  an 
unruffled  serenity,  head  erect,  unrepining,  still 
master  of  one's  fate,  whatever  comes.  Other- 
wise, of  what  profit  have  been  the  long,  deep 
thoughts  of  leisured  days,  the  solemn  lessons 
of  the  stars,  the  realisation  of  those  better 
things  which  shall  not  be  taken  away  ?  So  we 
smiled  undauntedly  in  the  face  of  Ruin,  and 
The  Philosopher,  figuring  on  a  stray  scrap  of 
paper,  formed  a  brave  plan  to  elude  his  un- 
welcome presence  and  to  cheat  him  of  his  prey. 

"  We  can  live  for  a  couple  of  years,  if  we 
do  as  I  suggest,"  he  decided  at  length. 

"  And  in  that  time  who  knows  what  may 
not  turn  up  !  "  cried  I,  with  the  confidence  of 
sparrows,  lilies,  and  other  inconsequent  things. 

So  we  held  a  grand  consultation.  The 
Philosopher's  health  made  living  in  England 
an  impossibility.  Sunshine  was  our  first  neces- 
sity ;  next,  a  place  where  the  cost  of  living 
could  be  reduced  to  the  lowest  figure  recon- 
cilable with  bodily  well-being,  and  where  we 
could  continue  to  enjoy  that  spiritual  tran- 


HOW  WE  FOUND  OUR  "  WALDEN  "     5 

quillity  which  is  more  to  be  desired  than  great 
riches. 

Where  should  we  go  ?  The  Riviera  was  out 
of  the  question ;  both  rent  and  service  there 
would  be  prohibitive.  Other  parts  of  France  ? 
Switzerland  ?  The  winters  would  be  impossi- 
ble, for  we  could  not  afford  the  necessary  fuel 
and  other  comforts.  Italy  ?  The  summers 
would  be  insupportably  hot.  The  Philosopher 
had  a  knowledge  of  Italian,  Spanish,  and  some 
Portuguese — all  kindred  languages.  The  coast 
of  Spain  held  first  place  in  our  inclinations  for 
some  days,  when  we  chanced  to  meet  a  young 
Portuguese  whose  account  of  the  seaboard  of 
his  country  charmed  our  imaginations.  Once 
off  the  track  of  the  escorted  tourist  it  was  but 
little  known  ;  the  climate  excelled  that  of  the 
Riviera  in  winter,  in  summer  its  heat  was 
tempered  by  the  cool  Atlantic  breezes  ;  the 
people  were  simple  and  kindly,  and  more  well- 
disposed  to  English  folk  than  were  those  of 
its  haughtier  neighbour ;  the  currency  was 
low,  and  service  was  cheap.  If  what  we  re- 
quired was  a  good  climate  and  primitive  living, 
if  we  did  not  aspire  to  bring  the  conditions  of 
London  life  to  a  country  some  hundreds  of  years 
in  the  rear,  as  so  many  English  people  did,  then 
we  might  surely  be  very  happy  in  his  country. 


6  A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

So  it  chanced  that  we  took  ship  and  came 
to  Portugal. 

A  most  fair  land  !  A  land  of  pines  and  oaks 
and  eucalyptus ;  of  an  infinite  wealth  of  bracken, 
golden  gorse,  and  purple  heather ;  of  tiny 
fields  of  tall,  green,  ribbony  maize  ;  of  lowly 
homesteads,  nestling  in  the  very  heart  of 
nature  ;  of  gorges,  of  streamlets,  and  crags  of 
warm  red  earth,  where  mica  glitters  amongst 
the  stones.  Small  wonder  was  it  that  the 
classic  Romans,  coming  upon  it  in  all  its 
virginity,  were  charmed  with  its  luxuriant 
beauty  and  its  soft  temperateness  of  climate 
compared  with  the  greater  extremes  of  their 
own  country,  and,  wandering  in  its  pine-scented 
forests,  or  resting  on  its  green,  sunlit  slopes, 
felt  that  here  at  last,  on  the  verge  of  the  ocean, 
they  had  indeed  found  the  Elysian  Fields. 

And  here,  after  a  little  searching,  we  happed 
upon  our  Portuguese  "  Walden,"  with  no  less 
thing  than  the  blue  Atlantic  for  our  lake.  We 
have  rented  the  annex  to  a  farm  :  a  square- 
built,  whitewashed  little  house,  with  a  corru- 
gated, red-tiled  roof,  two  big  windows  facing  the 
west  and  the  ocean,  and  a  little  north  window 
which  is  our  salvation  in  the  hot  weather. 


HOW  WE  FOUND  OUR  "  WALDEN "     7 

The  living  rooms  are  all  upstairs  ;  below,  lit 
by  two  tiny  slits  of  windows,  is  a  great  ce- 
mented room,  which  we  use  as  a  receptacle 
for  our  trunks  and  bicycles.  The  entrance  to 
our  quarters  is  at  the  back  of  the  house,  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  farm,  and  up  a  broad  flight 
of  stone  steps.  So,  to  the  outer  world,  we 
present  an  inhospitable  front  of  simply  two 
big  windows  on  high  and  two  wide  slits  be- 
neath ;  and  when  the  huge  iron-cased  doors 
of  the  courtyard  are  locked  for  the  night,  we, 
within  our  thick  walls,  seem  prepared  to  with- 
stand a  siege.  All  the  quarters  of  the  family 
of  peasants  who  run  the  farm  have  doors 
opening  on  the  interior  of  the  courtyard ; 
thus,  when  the  great  farm  doors  are  closed 
we  are  practically  impregnable  ;  there  is  no 
entrance  to  be  gained  by  legitimate  means, 
and  for  others — there  is  the  dog. 

These  precautions  in  a  land  where  the  people 
are  gentle,  law-abiding,  and  honest,  must  date 
from  centuries  ago  ;  probably  from  the  classic 
Roman  period,  and,  later,  the  days  of  the 
Moorish  occupation.  Indeed,  the  arrangement 
is  suggestive  of  the  East ;  for  this  is  a  country 
where  things  are  slow  to  change,  and  many  of 
the  old  customs  linger  on  delightfully. 

Our  little  place  used  to  be  inhabited  by  the 


8  A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

padre,  and,  as  an  enthusiastic  house-agent 
would  say,  "  its  decorations  are  superior." 
The  centre  of  the  ceiling  of  our  square  white 
sola  is  ornamented  by  four  most  unspiritual 
plaster  cherubs,  with  bright  red  puffy  cheeks 
and  blue  and  vermilion  wings  ;  and  the  padre 
has  left  a  wooden  hanging  crucifix,  which  I 
cherish  but  do  not  worship. 

The  spotless  boards  are  bare  of  carpet,  and 
our  chairs  and  tables  are  of  plain  white  pine- 
wood,  as  befits  a  couple  of  philosophers  who 
aspire  to  emulate  the  simplicity  of  Horace  on 
his  Sabine  farm,  and,  like  him,  to  cultivate 
the  virtues  of  "  plain  living  and  high  thinking." 
The  Philosopher's  paintings  and  our  books 
overflow  everywhere,  and  there  are  white  vases 
for  the  never-failing  flowers,  but  of  ornaments 
in  the  conventional  sense  there  are  none.  For 
would  not  I  have  to  dust  them  ?  And  have  I 
come  to  this  most  blessed  land  for  that  ? — to 
waste  the  beautiful,  long,  leisured  days  on 
unnecessary  household  work, — &  Sisyphus  task, 
and  unprofitable  to  the  soul.  My  Philosopher 
has  taught  me  better  things.  So,  with  the 
assistance  of  a  pretty  little  rapariga,  my  clean- 
ing and  dinner  preparations  are  done  in  two 
brief  morning  hours,  and  then  I  am  off  to  join 
him  on  the  sunny,  salt-sprayed  shore?  or 


HOW  WE  FOUND  OUR  "  WALDEN  "     9 

amongst  the  green,  shady  windings  of  our 
Happy  Valley. 

For  all  this  delightful  little  place,  with  no 
rates  or  taxes,  and  with  about  a  quarter  of  an 
acre  of  field  for  a  garden,  we  pay  the  yearly 
rental  of  25,000  reis  I  It  sounds  an  appalling 
sum  for  paupers  such  as  we  are,  until  one  finds 
that  it  is  an  equivalent  to  about  five  English 
pounds.  The  people  of  this  land  are  many  of 
them  poor  to  an  extent  that  is  rarely  known 
at  home,  and  it  seems  to  make  them  feel  richer 
to  count  their  money  in  such  infinitesimal 
coins.  A  beggar  will  pour  forth  a  string  of 
fervent  blessings  should  you  bestow  upon  him 
the  sum  for  which  he  pleads — cinco  reis — about 
one  farthing.  One  shudders  to  imagine  the 
vivid  language  and  scornful  regard  of  a  beggar 
in  the  Strand  to  whom  one  should  dare  to 
offer  such  an  indignity. 

Poverty  here  is  accepted  with  a  cheerful 
stoicism,  as  the  natural  and  inevitable  thing ; 
no  one  is  ashamed  of  rags  or  patches.  A  few 
beans,  floating  in  a  thin  mess  of  maize-meal, 
or  a  chunk  of  heavy,  unfermented  maize-bread, 
forms  a  sufficient  meal ;  and,  for  the  rest — 
well,  does  not  the  sun  shine  ?  And  on  this 
meagre  diet  the  women  tramp  for  miles  in  the 
dawn  to  market,  with  their  particular  little 


10         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

bits  of  produce,  which  can  only  bring  them 
a  few  pitiful  pence  in  return. 

In  the  market  of  our  nearest  big  town  I 
one  day  chanced  upon  an  old,  old  woman — old 
beyond  all  memory  of  youth — hunched  up  in 
her  place  in  the  line  of  women  squatting 
behind  their  baskets  of  fruit  and  vegetables. 
She  was  mouthing  and  mumbling  to  herself, 
while  her  brown,  claw-like  hands  hovered 
anxiously  over  her  wares — four  or  five  tiny, 
unripe,  unwholesome-looking  tomatoes,  not 
larger  than  button  mushrooms,  displayed  for 
sale  upon  a  broken  bit  of  basket  lid. 

At  the  railway  terminus  of  this  same  big 
town  there  is  a  platelayer  whose  trousers  are 
ever  a  joy  to  me.  They  have  been  patched 
up  and  down,  front  and  back,  with  cotton  and 
cloth  of  every  colour  and  texture,  until  I  am 
sure  that  not  even  he  himself  can  point  to  the 
particular  square  which  represents  the  original 
garment.  He  is  a  fine,  stalwart,  merry  fellow, 
and  his  companions  think  no  less  of  him  for 
his  wondrous  nether  coverings.  Do  they  not 
prove  his  possession  of  an  industrious,  thrifty 
helpmate  ?  And  are  they  not  infinitely  more 
self-respecting  than  holes  ?  Where  all  are  so 
poor,  fine  distinctions  of  attire  would  be  con- 
sidered invidious. 


CHAPTER    II 

OUR  NEIGHBOURS 

IF  any  one  opens  this  book  in  the  expectation 
of  reading  an  account  of  aristocratic  life  in 
Portugal,  of  festivities,  of  bull-fights,  of  dark- 
eyed  senhoritas  and  of  amorous  adventures  in 
this  sunny  land,  I  fear  he  will  be  grievously 
disappointed.  The  Philosopher  and  I  have 
lived  very  close  to  the  earth  here,  and  our 
experiences  are  all  of  those  who  dwell  upon  it 
in  humble  huts  and  scrape  pathetic  little 
patches  of  its  surface,  existing  upon  its  simple 
bounty.  What  knowledge  we  have  of  its  soul 
has  been  gained  face  to  face  with  Nature — with 
that  patriarchal,  gracious,  rural  Portugal  which 
has  remained  practically  unchanged  with  the 
passing  of  the  centuries,  uninfluenced  by  the 
feverish  modern  fancies  of  London  or  Paris, 
temperamentally  unimitative  and  self-sufficing. 
To  us,  with  our  ears  to  the  ground,  come 
faint,  faint  vibrations,  indicating  a  future 

ll 


12          A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

change  of  conditions.  The  country  is  stirring 
in  its  sleep  ;  the  blatant  call  of  Progress  is 
penetrating  even  its  somnolent  ears.  But, 
alas  !  with  the  good  time  coming,  with  the 
awakening  of  energy,  with  much  necessary 
reform  and  evolution,  a  loss  of  some  at  least 
of  its  old-world  charm  is  inevitable.  Its  people 
will  necessarily  become  more  sophisticated,  and 
their  lives  will  lose  in  simplicity  what  they  gain 
in  prosperity. 

Lighter  hearted,  less  oppressively  dignified, 
and  with  a  keener  sense  of  humour  than  the 
Spaniards,  the  Portuguese  have  been  termed 
"  the  Italians  of  the  Peninsula."  Although 
at  such  close  quarters  with  their  haughty, 
aristocratic  neighbour,  with  a  language  con- 
fusingly  similar  in  many  of  its  words,  there  is 
really  not  much  in  common  between  the  two 
countries  ;  for  the  virtues  of  this  nation  are 
of  the  hearty,  easy-going,  impulsive,  and  kindly 
bourgeoisie,  in  comparison  with  the  grave,  self- 
contained  pride  of  the  Spaniards. 

Certainly,  amongst  none  other  of  the  Latin 
races  have  we  experienced  such  spontaneous 
and  disinterested  kindness  as  in  Portugal ;  and 
though  one  hears  much  of  certain  venalties 
and  lack  of  rectitude,  we  have  found  much 
honesty  amongst  the  people,  with  much  good- 


OUR    NEIGHBOURS  13 

heartedness  and  courtesy.  Possibly  partly 
owing  to  their  being  yet  unspoiled  by  demora- 
lising hordes  of  tourists,  in  these  particulars 
they  seem  to  us  more  self-respecting,  less 
grasping  and  "  on  the  make  "  than  the  Italians. 
Of  this  we  have  experienced  many  instances. 

On  one  occasion,  when  I  was  ill,  The  Philo- 
sopher entered  a  small  shop  to  buy  a  bottle 
of  cognac. 

"  Sin,  Senhor,  I  have  cognac,  but  it  is  not 
of  the  best  quality.  Senhor  X,  lower  down 
the  street,  has  better,"  replied  the  proprietor, 
instead  of  effusively  declaring  that  his  cognac 
was  the  very  best  possible,  and  none  so  good 
to  be  obtained  anywhere  else  in  the  town. 

When  we  were  fresh  to  Portugal,  and  still 
seeking  our  "  Walden,"  in  the  course  of  our 
wanderings  we  put  up  for  a  few  days  at  a  small 
country  hotel  whilst  we  inspected  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Not  finding  anything  to  suit  us 
we  were  preparing  to  leave,  when  our  host 
said :  "  If  the  Senhor  is  thinking  of  going  to 

D ,  I  should  be  delighted  to  give  him  a 

letter  to  my  brother-in-law,  who  lives  there. 
He  may  be  of  service  to  the  Senhor."  A 
kindly  offer,  which  of  course  was  gratefully 
accepted.  Upon  The  Philosopher  presenting 
the  letter  of  introduction  to  the  brother-in-law, 


14         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

that  good  man  devoted  a  day  from  his  business 
to  searching  the  country-side,  showing  us  all 
the  tenantless  houses  of  about  the  rent  and 
size  we  needed ;  and  when,  under  his  guidance, 
we  saw  and  decided  upon  this  little  place,  but 
found  there  would  be  an  unavoidable  delay,  as 
we  could  not  take  possession  whilst  the  neces- 
sary painting  and  white-washing  was  in  pro- 
gress, he  insisted  upon  our  accepting  the  loan 
of  a  furnished,  unoccupied  house  of  his  own, 
and  would  take  no  refusal,  nor  any  payment 
for  the  use  of  it. 

As  for  our  landlord,  he  began  by  spending 
a  large  portion  of  the  first  year's  modest  rent 
in  making  us  comfortable  and  adding  con- 
veniences ;  and  he  now  comes  periodically  to 
visit  us,  with  his  honest  red  face  all  one  broad, 
good-natured  smile,  and  sits  chatting  with  The 
Philosopher,  admiring  his  pictures  and  beaming 
upon  us  both  in  the  most  delightful  fashion. 
If  we  need  anything  and  do  not  know  the  best 
means  of  procuring  it,  we  have  but  to  apply  to 
him,  and  the  difficulty  vanishes  ;  for  nothing 
appears  too  much  trouble  for  him  to  do  for  us. 

I  wonder  whether  there  are  many  landlords 
of  his  type  in  England  ? 

On  the  sunny  blue  morning  when  we  came 


OUR   NEIGHBOURS  15 

to  take  possession  of  our  "  Walden,"  we  also 
must  have  looked  truly  patriarchal  and  of  the 
country,  trudging  the  long  country  road  beside 
the  slowly-moving  ox-cart  which  was  laden 
with  our  trunks  and  our  newly  bought  stock 
of  simple  furniture.  Our  hearts  were  light  as 
we  neared  the  little  square  white  building, 
set  amongst  the  pines  and  the  maize  ;  for  there 
was  to  be  our  haven  from  the  storms  and  stress 
of  life  ;  there  we  were  to  lead  the  ideal  life  of 
simplicity  and  leisure,  whilst  we  worked  and 
hoped  and  waited  for  those  problematical 
"  better  times." 

The  Philosopher  strode  soberly  along,  but  I 
longed  to  sing,  and  my  eager  feet  could  scarcely 
be  content  to  make  such  leisurely  progress,  for 
I  was  all  impatience  to  be  there,  to  set  my 
modest  kingdom  in  order — to  begin 

Suddenly  wild  cries  came  from  the  pine- 
woods,  excited  voices  nearer  us  echoed  them. 
But  a  moment  before  we  and  Miguel  and  his 
ox-cart  had  seemed  to  have  the  world  to  our- 
selves ;  now,  from  here,  there,  and  everywhere 
— from  the  maize-fields,  the  washing-place,  and 
the  mills — the  peasantry  came  running,  and 
all  taking  up  the  cry,  "  Ladrdo  !  Ladrdo  !  " 
Miguel  at  once  desisted  from  his  labour  of 
urging  on  his  drowsy  team  of  oxen,  and 


16         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

leaving  them  and  us  standing  stranded  in 
the  road,  rushed  off  after  the  others  into  the 
wood. 

"  What  can  it  be  ?  "  I  cried  to  The  Philoso- 
pher. "Is  it  a  revolution  ?  " 

'  Well,"  responded  he,  with  mock  gravity, 
"  I  don't  quite  know.  However,  I  think  that 
'  ladrdo  '  means  '  thief.'  Let's  come  and  see." 
And  the  oxen  having  apparently  improved  the 
occasion  by  going  to  sleep,  we  also  left  them 
and  our  belongings  to  their  fate  in  the  road 
and  scrambled  up  a  little  hill  above  the  old 
gravel  quarry  beside  our  house,  whence  we 
had  a  view  of  the  pine-woods  behind. 

Presently,  out  of  the  green  shadowy  depths 
rushed  a  youth  of  fifteen  or  sixteen,  with  some 
of  the  men  hot  upon  his  track.  He  doubled, 
trying  to  hide  amongst  the  gorse  and  ferns, 
but  it  was  too  late  ;  they  saw  him,  and  in 
another  instant  he  was  surrounded  by  a  group 
of  angry  captors,  all  gesticulating  and  shouting 
to  him  at  once.  Then  summary  vengeance 
was  taken  upon  him,  and  he  received  such  a 
formidable  thrashing  that  I  was  forced  to 
avert  my  eyes. 

"  Oh— I  wish  they  wouldn't !  "  I  gasped  ; 
"  I  wish  they  wouldn't !  "  And  The  Philoso- 
pher, who  is  one  of  the  most  humane  of  men, 


OUR   NEIGHBOURS  17 

plunged  off  through  the  bushes  towards  the 
scene  in  more  energetic  protest. 

Some  one  gave  vent  to  a  hearty  chuckle 
beside  me,  and,  turning,  I  beheld  our  landlord, 
hands  in  pocket,  beaming  approvingly  upon 
the  incident. 

"  The  rapaz  has  been  stealing,"  he  said,  in 
response  to  my  inquiring  look.  "  A  piece  of 
bacon,  I  understand.  I  don't  fancy  he  will 
do  it  again  in  a  hurry  !  The  senhor  is  kind  to 
interfere  ;  but  indeed  it  is  the  best  way,  men 
senhora — this  quick  and  wholesome  punish- 
ment ;  better  than  sending  him  to  prison  to 
sulk  and  get  contaminated  by  other  boys 
worse  than  himself." 

And  when,  later,  I  saw  the  gaol  of  our 
nearest  big  town,  I  thought  so  too  ! 

At  this  same  big  town  a  certain  high  bridge 
spans  the  river  which  is  nicknamed  by  some, 
"  The  Suicides'  Bridge,"  it  is  so  favourite  a 
means  for  desperate  and  unhappy  persons  to 
seek  to  end  their  troubles.  Amongst  a  people 
so  emotional  and  affectionate  as  the  Portuguese, 
these  imitative  suicides  are  principally  the 
result  of  love  which  has  gone  awry,  and  many 
romantic  stories  are  connected  with  them. 
One  such  attempt — happily  with  a  more 

2 


18         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

fortunate  ending  than  most  of  them — was 
curious.  A  young  lady  thought  she  had 
reason  to  believe  that  her  lover  had  jilted  her, 
and,  in  her  grief  and  despair,  she  sought  the 
famous  bridge  and,  climbing  the  parapet, 
jumped  over.  Usually,  I  believe,  it  happens 
that  even  should  the  suicide  escape  contact 
with  the  iron  framework  of  the  bridge,  the 
breathlessly  rapid  fall  from  so  great  a  height 
causes  unconsciousness  before  the  water  is 
reached  ;  but  this  young  lady  was  fortunately 
a  novice  at  diving,  and,  jumping  feet  foremost, 
the  wind  caught  and  distended  her  voluminous 
skirts,  balloon  fashion,  thus  breaking  her 
plunge  into  the  water  to  such  an  extent  that 
she  was  rescued  quite  unhurt.  The  happy 
sequel  was  that  the  remorseful  lover  convinced 
her  of  his  unaltered  devotion,  and  they  were 
speedily  married — to  "  live  happily  ever  after," 
let  us  hope. 

In  my  observations  of  the  peasantry  I  am 
often  amused  to  trace  how  much  of  the  Eastern 
conception  of  woman's  place  in  the  scheme 
of  the  universe  survives  amongst  them. 
Woman  is  the  burden  carrier — a  custom 
probably  dating  from  the  days  when  man  had 
to  go  unencumbered  and  armed  in  vigilant 


OUR   NEIGHBOURS  19 

preparedness  for  any  chance  upspringing 
foe.  As  it  is  at  present,  the  wife — barefoot, 
lightly  clad,  and  bearing  a  huge  basket  or 
bundle  upon  her  head — trudges  behind,  whilst 
the  superior  male  strides  in  front,  carrying 
his  beloved  umbrella,  and,  if  it  is  at  all  cold, 
carefully  shrouded  in  a  long  heavy  cloak  or 
coat,  with  a  monk's-hood  attachment.  When 
we  landed  from  the  steamer  a  slight,  pretty 
girl,  of  not  more  than  eighteen  or  twenty, 
carried  our  big,  heavy  cabin  trunks  upon  her 
head  from  the  dock  to  the  hotel,  whilst  her 
man-belonging  trotted  empty-handed  beside 
her ;  and  when  we  ventured  to  remonstrate, 
he  grinned  proudly  and  assured  us  that  she 
liked  it ! 

The  women  also  work  in  the  fields,  drive  the 
oxen,  and  share  in  all  the  men's  labours  when 
they  are  not  engaged  in  washing  clothes  or 
producing  babies.  Under  these  hard  con- 
ditions of  life  there  is  little  or  no  time  left 
for  domestic  niceties  ;  and,  for  most,  home 
seems  merely  a  shelter  from  the  weather  and 
a  place  in  which  to  cook  and  to  sleep.  To 
them,  cleanly  surroundings  and  sanitation 
seem  practically  unknown  virtues ;  and 
broken  or  paneless  windows,  fires  whose  smoke 
has  no  outlet  but  the  door  or  cracks  between 


20         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  tiles  of  the  roof,  and  dirty  living-rooms 
in  which  the  fowls  stalk  about  at  will,  are 
amongst  the  ordinary  conditions  here  ;  besides 
some  unnamable  breaches  of  hygiene  and 
shudderingly  uncleanly  habits. 

But  it  must  be  counted  to  them  for  right- 
eousness that  they  do  wash  their  clothes,  if 
they  neglect  to  wash  themselves  ;  while  for 
all  their  sanitary  shortcomings,  ignorance  and 
the  hard,  incessant  struggle  for  mere  existence 
are  principally  responsible.  Here,  in  the 
country,  the  wonderful  pure  air  and  the  bene- 
ficent action  of  the  sun's  rays  neutralises  the 
evil  effects,  but  in  the  big  town,  small-pox 
and  other  zymotic  diseases  are  always  more 
or  less  present,  with  occasional  cases  of  plague  ; 
and  the  methods  of  coping  with  these  evils 
seem  very  inadequate  to  our  English  ideas. 
But  what  with  vaccination  and  healthier 
modes  of  life,  the  English  residents  and  visitors 
rarely  fall  victims  to  these  lurking  pestilences. 

Unlike  the  Spaniards,  the  Portuguese  are 
generally  kind  and  humane  to  animals.  Many 
of  the  oxen  are  fine,  sleek,  well-fed  beasts, 
and  the  fowls,  goats,  and  pigs  seem  to  be  re- 
garded— and  to  regard  themselves — as  honoured 
members  of  the  household.  On  the  occasion 


OUR   NEIGHBOURS  21 

of  market-days  at  the  nearest  town  it  is  a 
comical  and  not  infrequent  sight  to  see  a 
peasant  woman  driving  a  huge  porker  along 
the  high  road  with  a  cord  attached  to  one  of 
its  hind  legs,  gently  suggesting  progress  to 
it  with  an  occasional  flip  from  a  harmless  twig, 
and  a  rapaz  or  rapariga  walking  ahead,  en- 
couraging his  porcine  lordship  with  coaxing 
cries  ;  both  waiting  from  time  to  time  whilst 
he  refreshes  himself  with  some  seductive 
clump  of  grass  in  the  hedgerow. 

I  have  seen  a  woman  carrying  home  a 
young  pig  in  the  inevitable  basket  set  upon 
her  head,  with  its  brothers  under  each  arm  be- 
sides, all  squeaking  vigorously  in  protest.  And 
a  brood  of  chickens  or  ducks  often  form  a  fan- 
tastic head  adornment  as  they  nod  their  heads 
above  the  basket's  rim  on  their  way  to  market. 

The  strangest  thing  I  ever  saw  one  of  the 
peasant  women  carrying  was  a  great  Singer's 
sewing  machine,  with  its  iron  stand  and 
treadles.  I  do  not  know  what  it  can  have 
weighed,  but  I  fancy  no  man  less  than  a  Sandow 
would  have  cared  to  walk  far  with  it  perched 
upon  his  head  ! 

The  women  are  as  a  rule  very  good-looking. 
The  younger  ones — before  hard  work,  priva- 
tion, and  exposure  have  turned  them  into 


22         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

lean,  wrinkled  hags — are  of  the  grand,  maternal 
type ;  erect,  deep  chested,  with  handsome 
faces,  well-poised  heads,  and  a  direct,  fearless 
outlook  upon  a  world  in  which  they  bear 
more  than  a  proportionate  share  of  the  burdens 
in  comparison  with  their  men.  Sometimes 
I  have  dared  to  think  what  a  benefit  it  would 
be  for  the  physical  improvement  of  the  race 
if  some  of  our  effete,  super-civilised  young  men 
could  choose  such  women  for  their  mates. 

Altogether,  the  peasant  women  appear  of 
a  finer  physique  than  the  men,  who  are  apt 
to  be  squat  and  undersized,  and,  in  their 
nondescript  garments,  with  their  heavy  brows 
and  swarthy  faces,  remind  one  fearsomely 
of  some  comic-opera  villains.  But  their 
looks  belie  them  ;  for  I  have  generally  found 
them  gentle,  respectful,  and  of  a  truly  wonder- 
ful courtesy. 

Indeed,  with  their  light-heartedness,  kind- 
liness, and  natural  good  manners,  they  are 
a  lovable  people — if  one  does  not  seek  to  take 
them  too  seriously,  or  to  judge  them  by  rigid 
Northern  standpoints  of  veracity  and  probity  ; 
remembering  the  differing  stages  of  progress 
and  the  subtle  but  very  real  influences  of 
climate  upon  character. 


CHAPTER   III 

OUR      SURROUNDINGS 

I  HAVE  a  slip  of  a  sleeping-chamber  ;  tiny, 
white,  and  bare  as  a  nun's  cell ;  but  the  view 
from  its  big  window  makes  it  more  to  be 
desired  than  the  stateliest  room  in  a  city 
palace. 

When  I  open  my  eyes  in  the  early  morning 
I  lie  looking  out  upon  a  scene  of  such  rare 
beauty  that  the  daily  return  to  life  is  ever 
a  fresh  joy  to  me,  bestowing  a  benison  upon 
the  coming  hours. 

Below  my  window  stretches  the  little  field 
of  maize  from  which  my  garden  plot  has  been 
stolen.  The  tender,  blue-green,  long  ribbony 
leaves  shimmer  in  the  sunlight,  stirred  by  a 
first  faint  promise  of  the  wind  which  will 
spring  up  later.  Beyond  the  grey  granite 
fence  the  road  winds  by,  along  which  presently 
the  milk-woman  trips,  carrying  her  load  of 
tin  cans  in  a  great  shallow  round  basket,  poised 

23 


24         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

upon  her  head.  She  is  young,  broad-chested, 
upright,  and  alert  with  strength  and  grace. 
She  is  untrammelled  by  stays  or  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  the  whiteness  of  her  head- 
kerchief  and  ample  blouse  would  shame  the 
snow.  Her  walk,  from  the  hips  alone,  has 
a  perfect  swing  and  freedom,  and  her  load, 
unheld,  yet  securely  balanced,  discomposes 
her  not  at  all.  Even  so  might  Rebekah  have 
appeared  when  she  met  Eliezer  of  Damascus 
at  the  well  of  Nahor  ;  so  might  the  Moorish 
women  have  passed  along  this  selfsame  road, 
centuries  ago. 

Then,  slowly,  very  slowly  and  thoughtfully, 
an  ox-cart  will  creep  along  the  road  :  a  primi- 
tive vehicle  with  removable  sides  of  basket- 
work,  and  heavy,  spokeless  wooden  wheels, 
springless  and  fixed  to  the  axle,  which  con- 
sequently revolves  with  them.  The  cart  is 
drawn  by  a  pair  of  bay-coloured  oxen,  gentle 
and  phlegmatic  creatures,  with  big,  soft 
brown  eyes,  their  patient  necks  bending  be- 
neath a  broad  yoke  of  curiously  carved  wood, 
which  is  sometimes  quite  beautiful,  and  a 
much  prized  heirloom  in  the  peasant  families. 
Horses  are  a  rare  sight  here  ;  the  ox-carts  do 
all  the  conveying  ;  the  patient  beasts  creeping 
at  their  slow  pace  for  long,  long,  distances, 


OUR    SURROUNDINGS  25 

led  by  a  rapaz  or  a  rapa,riga,  and  urged  on 
and  anathematised  at  frequent  intervals  by 
their  driver,  who  occasionally  enforces  his 
words  by  a  prod  from  a  long  stick  with  a  nail 
hidden  at  its  point — the  ox-goad,  unknown 
now  to  civilisation,  except  in  metaphor. 

The  last  groan  of  the  lumbering  cart-wheels 
dies  away  in  the  distance  at  length,  and  the 
blessed  morning  quiet  is  unbroken  by  aught 
save  the  liquid  notes  of  a  robin  perched  in 
the  fig  tree  beneath  my  window. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  road  there 
stretches  a  strip  of  common,  bright  with  golden 
gorse  and  purple  heather  and  bracken,  and 
dotted  with  a  series  of  tiny  windmills,  of  such 
shape  and  lance-like  poise  of  centre-pole  that 
one  can  comprehend  the  possibility  of  the 
poor  Knight  of  La  Mancha's  frenzied  mistake 
as  one  could  never  do  from  the  semblance  of 
an  English  windmill.  These  are  for  use  when 
the  stream  runs  dry  and  the  water-mills  stand 
in  enforced  idleness.  One  of  these  mills  has 
a  tiny  shrine  let  in  its  side,  where  the  women, 
passing  across  the  common  on  their  way  to 
market,  can  rest  their  loads  upon  its  stone 
foundation,  and  may  kneel  and  pray  a  little 
prayer  to  the  Christ  or  the  Holy  Mother ; 


26          A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

perhaps  that  their  cabbages  may  fetch  a  good 
price,  or  that  they  may  be  given  grace  to 
refrain  from  the  sin  of  evil-speaking  or  crooked- 
dealing  amid  the  temptations  of  the  town. 
Some  of  these  little  erections  are  of  wood, 
some  of  cemented  stone.  Those  of  wood  are 
moved  round  bodily,  on  tiny  wheels,  to  present 
their  sails  to  the  particular  wind  which  chances 
to  be  blowing,  while  the  stone  ones  have  re- 
volving roofs  for  the  same  purpose.  Even 
with  this  facility  for  courting  Boreas — for 
it  is  usually  the  north  wind  which  serves 
them — the  men  who  have  them  in  charge 
have  often  hours  to  wait  before  the  wind  arises. 
But  what  matters  that,  in  this  land  of  infinite 
leisure  ?  They  lounge  outside  the  mill  doors, 
and  the  women  who  have  come,  bearing  on 
their  heads  their  great  bags  of  maize  to  be 
ground,  sit  too,  and  there  seems  always  some- 
thing to  talk  about  and  to  argue  over,  with  eager 
voices  and  excited  gestures — and  the  day  is 
young,  and  the  sun  is  warm  ;  there  is  no  hurry, 
the  wind  will  arise  in  God's  good  time. 

When  it  does  come,  all  the  sails  revolve  with 
bustling  energy,  each  set  seeming  to  chant  a 
different  song.  There  is  a  very  old  mill  near 
by  which  perpetually  groans  a  weary  complaint: 
"  I  am  so  tired — I  am  so  tired — do  let  me  be  !  " 


OUR    SURROUNDINGS  27 

So  unwilling  is  it  to  work,  so  worn  out  with 
its  long  service,  that,  if  I  could,  I  would  buy 
it,  lock  it  up  and  lose  the  key  of  it,  and  let 
it  rest  unharassed  until  its  crazy  timbers 
should  crumble  into  dust. 

Within  hail  of  this  veteran  there  is  a  more 
modern  stone  mill,  with  a  bright  red  roof, 
and  it  Jilts  a  gay  defiance  as  it  whirls  round 
busily — "  /  don't  care  if  I  work  all  day  !  / 
don't  care  if  I  work  all  day  !  "  And  the  more 
distant  ones  respond — "  We're  working  as 
hard  as  you,  anyway  !  We're  working  as 
hard  as  you,  anyway  !  "  while  the  World- 
Weary  One  drones  out  its  incessant  grumble — 
"  So  tired — so  tired — let  me  be — Do  let  me 
be!" 

Thus  the  windmills  in  their  working  hours. 
In  the  twilight  they  appear  as  squat  grey 
ghosts,  with  outstretched  arms  ;  but  there  is 
a  brief  time  in  the  early  morning  when  they 
are  transformed  into  dream  things  of  almost 
unearthly  beauty.  When  they  stand  all  still 
in  the  pure  light  of  dawn,  and  slowly,  slowly 
creeping  from  one  to  the  other,  the  first  golden 
sunbeam  touches  them  into  marvellous  colours 
of  soft  pink  and  green  and  purple  and  primrose, 
they  are  idealised  by  its  magic  into  things  of  a 
fairer  world  ;  and  they  share  in  the  holiness 


28         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

and  the  mystery  of  the  coming  of  the  God  of 
Day. 

Beyond  this  strip  of  common  I  know  the 
railroad  runs  which  connects  us  with  civilisa- 
tion, but  it  is  mercifully  hidden  in  a  shallow 
cutting.  All  I  can  see  from  my  window  is  a 
wide  ridge  of  yellow  sand  hillocks,  and,  beyond 
— the  surging  white  surf  of  the  Atlantic  shore, 
with  the  broad  expanse  of  blue  sea,  stretching 
away  to  the  skyline,  no  land  nearer  than 
America. 

Behind  that  sea  each  clear  evening  the  sun 
sets — a  great,  beneficent,  working  god  who  has 
given  all  the  day  generously  to  this  favoured 
land  of  his  warmth  and  joy  and  light,  and  who 
sinks  reluctantly  beneath  the  waves  at  last,  in  a 
blaze  of  golden  glory  ;  even  after  his  departure 
sending  up  into  the  serene  blue  his  opalesque 
rays  of  pink,  orange,  and  green,  tinging  the 
stray  cloudlets  with  purest  tints  of  rose — his 
promise  of  a  glad  return  upon  the  morrow. 

Each  day  at  this  charmed  hour  The  Philo- 
sopher and  I  share  in  Nature's  vespers, 
watching  silently  or  speaking  with  lowered 
voices,  for  it  is  a  holy  time,  when  thought  in- 
voluntarily merges  into  prayer  ;  and  not  until 
the  last  gleam  has  faded  do  we  resume  our 
ordinary  avocations, 


OUR    SURROUNDINGS  29 

Presently,  in  the  "  dimsy  light,"  a  soft  blue 
haze  of  smoke  arises  from  the  tiny  cottages 
hidden  amongst  the  pines  and  the  fields  of 
maize  ;  a  pleasant,  pungent  scent  of  burning 
wood  is  everywhere  diffused.  The  house- 
wives are  home  from  their  toil  in  the  fields 
and  the  woods,  and  the  evening  meal  of  milho 
and  beans  is  in  course  of  preparation,  while 
the  little  bare-footed,  half-clothed  children 
seem,  like  the  birds,  to  grow  more  lively  as 
sleep-time  approaches,  and  scream  and  chatter 
and  contest  as  noisily  as  though  the  day  had 
not  been  long  enough  for  all  their  doings. 
But  quiet  succeeds,  when  the  mae  gathers 
them  in,  to  sit  on  the  floor  or  on  little  wooden 
stools,  hugging  their  brown  unglazed  earthen- 
ware bowls,  to  fish  with  three-pronged  pewter 
forks  or  rude  wooden  spoons  for  the  fugitive 
beans  or  fragments  of  cabbage  which  are 
sparsely  mingled  in  a  thin  mess  of  maize- 
meal. 

Soon,  one  by  one,  the  feeble  lights  disappear 
in  these  simple  homes  ;  doors  and  windows 
are  fast  bolted,  and  the  glory  of  the  night  is 
left  to  crazy  English  folk,  who  waste  oil  turning 
night  into  day,  and  lie  abed  when  the  sun  has 
risen  in  the  sky.  Then  The  Philosopher  and 
I  are  wont  to  steal  forth  and  to  wander  off  into 


30         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  enchanted  outside  world  where  such  a  wide 
choice  of  beauty  is  waiting  for  us  alone. 

We  can  cross  our  common  by  The  Path  of 
The  Windmills,  scramble  down  and  up  the 
railway  banks,  and  so  find  ourselves  upon  the 
wide  silvery  sands,  where,  seaward,  our  few 
rocks  lie  like  sleeping  brown  monsters  amongst 
the  white  surf,  and,  beyond,  the  waves  are 
shimmering  in  the  moonlight,  whilst  above 
us  the  great  blue  dome  of  heaven  holds  sus- 
pended in  its  measureless  height  the  serene 
Queen  of  the  Night,  and  countless  myriads  of 
luminaries,  twinkling  down  upon  two  in- 
finitesimal Insignificants,  straying  upon  this 
third-rate  planet.  But  The  Philosopher  and 
I  laugh  up  at  them,  and  plan  how  we  will 
explore  them  all  when  we  are  free  some  day, 
making  a  grand  tour  among  them — after  we 
have  donned  the  Time-annihilating  Hat  for 
which  Teufelsdrokh  longed,  and  have  watched 
the  solemn  wonder  of  Creation  and  of  Evolu- 
tion upon  this  our  own  dear  world.  Ah,  when 
that  day  comes,  what  a  wealth  there  will  be 
to  enjoy  and  to  do  ;  and  what  surprises  there 
will  be  fo/  us  ! 

Or,  perhaps,  we  turn  aside  from  the  common, 
and,  making  our  way  down  a  steep  little  path, 
we  descend  into  a  grassy  hollow  amongst  the 


OUR   SURROUNDINGS  31 

canes  and  rushes,  where,  sheer  out  of  the  rock, 
a  musical  trickle  of  pure  spring  water  supplies 
the  household  needs  of  ourselves  and  the 
neighbouring  cottagers.  Ever  overflowing  its 
tiny  sandy  basin,  it  streams  down  and  con- 
tributes of  its  superfluity  to  a  small  rush- 
bordered  pond,  where  the  frogs  are  croaking 
their  nightly  chorus.  Such  a  hubbub  !  So 
many  gossips  raucously  discussing  the  affairs 
of  their  little  community,  breaking  in  upon 
each  other  with  importunate  "  quarks  "  and 
"  spuarks,"  in  varying  depths  and  heights  of 
tones,  from  the  old  Grandfather  Frog  occa- 
sionally venting  a  hoarse  dignified  comment, 
to  the  youngest  shedder  of  a  tail,  shrieking 
of  the  miracle  that  has  happened  to  him  ;  all 
knowing  their  luscious,  weedy  pond  to  be  the 
centre  of  the  universe  and  intruding  man  to 
be  but  a  transitory  and  unwarrantable  dis- 
turber of  their  peace. 

Here,  too,  between  low  grassy  banks,  winds 
the  narrow  stream  which  has  run  down  the 
fair  length  of  our  Happy  Valley,  placidly 
making  its  way  to  merge  all  its  separate  per- 
sonality in  the  bosom  of  its  waiting  lover,  the 
sea. 

On  either  side  of  its  banks  the  broad,  flat 
kneeling-stones  of  the  washerwomen  gleam 


32         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

white  in  the  moonlight.  Here,  in  one  place, 
a  loose  arbour  of  broken  branches  of  trees  has 
been  formed  above  them,  to  shade  the  workers 
from  the  blaze  of  the  noonday  sun  ;  and  here, 
through  all  the  long  bright  days,  the  laundresses 
splash  and  swirl  and  soap  and  thump  the  roupa 
on  the  stones  to  the  accompaniment  of  their 
high-pitched  songs  and  merry  laughter  ;  after- 
wards spreading  the  snowy  linen  to  dry  upon 
the  grassy  slopes  behind  them.  These  peasant 
women  appear  to  be  endlessly  washing  clothes 
whenever  they  are  not  working  in  the  fields. 
And,  indeed,  great  are  the  virtues  of  clean 
garments,  be  they  ever  so  ragged,  in  this 
southern  land. 

Or,  again,  we  turn  our  backs  upon  the  at- 
tractions of  the  common  and  the  sea,  and 
wander  off  into  the  shades  of  our  Happy 
Valley,  by  a  tiny  path  beside  our  house  which 
winds  immediately  into  the  pine-woods.  Here 
all  is  still  in  the  soft  summer  darkness.  We 
soon  quit  the  narrow  path,  and  silently  tread- 
ing our  way  amongst  the  moss  and  bracken, 
we  follow  the  little  stream  which  is  flowing 
between  the  wooded  slopes. 

A  scent  of  dying  wood-fires  lingers  in  the 
air  ;  the  pines  emit  a  balmy,  resinous  odour  ; 


OUR   SURROUNDINGS  33 

our  feet  crush  some  unseen  herb,  and  a  fresh 
fragrance  uprises  in  response.  Sombrely  the 
tall  pine  trunks  shoot  straight  upwards  in 
the  dimness,  and,  high  above,  their  feathery 
tops  stand  stilly  out  like  finest  black  etchings 
against  the  luminous  sky.  Moths  flit  about 
irresolutely,  a  droning  night-beetle  blunders 
against  my  hair,  and  the  water  below  ripples 
coolly,  silver-sounding,  on  its  leisurely  way  to 
the  washing-stones  and  the  sea. 

The  clusters  of  honeysuckle  and  the  briar- 
roses  show  pallid  faces  from  amongst  the  dark 
bushes  ;  and  presently,  over  and  about  them, 
strange  fairy  lights  flash  elusively — here,  there, 
not  long  anywhere — cutting  the  summer  dusk 
with  vivid  gleams,  then  gone — to  multiply 
and  dance  an  elfish  measure  around  some  other 
bush  or  against  some  stalwart  pine  trunk. 
The  fireflies  are  abroad,  and  the  glowworm's 
nuptial  lamp  gleams  coldly  blue  in  comparison. 

As  we  cross  the  little  stone  bridge  which 
spans  the  stream,  and  pass  the  miller's  low 
cottage,  an  alert  cock,  wakening  at  the  sound 
of  our  footsteps,  crows  suddenly — shrilly ; 
and  the  miller's  yellow  dog — my  chief  terror — 
thus  disturbed  from  his  sleep  under  the  maize- 
stalk  thatch  of  the  shed,  emits  a  perfunctory 
bark.  Then,  seeing  it  is  but  the  two  mad 

3 


34         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

English  people  who  walk  abroad  when  all  should 
sleep,  but  who  do  not  steal  the  fowls,  he  recurls 
himself,  and  reproves  us  by  his  good  example. 
There  springs  up  a  tiny,  soft  breeze,  warm, 
but  refreshing  after  the  heat  of  the  day,  and 
the  ivy-leaves,  clustering  round  the  old  tree 
stems,  begin  to  rustle,  and  whisper,  and  gleam 
in  the  moonlight.  The  bell  at  the  distant 
church  sounds  the  hour  in  deep,  slow,  mellow 
tones.  All  this  little  world  sleeps  but  ourselves, 
and  we  turn  homewards  and  slumberwards, 
talking  in  hushed  voices  as  we  thread  our  way 
between  the  solemn  pines. 


CHAPTER    IV 

OURSELVES  AND   OUR  FOOD 

WE  long  ago  formed  ourselves  into  a  Mutual 
Admiration  Society.  As  he  will  certainly 
never  read  this  book,  I  can  venture  to  say  that 
no  one  could  live  for  long  beside  The  Philo- 
sopher without  coming  to  reverence  his  sweet 
sound  nature,  his  gentleness  and  simplicity, 
his  generous  point  of  view  in  things  great  and 
small,  the  consistent  nobility  of  his  attitude 
to  life  which  shames  all  weak  and  unworthy 
thoughts  in  others.  One  of  his  ancestors  was 
a  general  in  Cromwell's  army,  and  I  sometimes 
think  that  grand  old  Puritan  has  bequeathed 
many  of  his  stern  virtues  to  this  his  far-off 
descendant.  It  is  a  thing  to  thank  God  for — 
to  have  known  one  man  who  "  rang  true," 
without  worldly  dross  or  moral  alloy — and  I 
am  very  proud  of  my  Philosopher. 

And  although  I  cannot  always  find  calm 
reason  for  his  belief  in  me,  it  is  certainly 
beautiful  and  encouraging  to  possess  a  com- 

35 


36         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

rade   who   thinks  one  ever  wise,   witty,   and 
charming.     As  one  of  John  Oliver  Hobbes's 
women  says,  "It  is  so  much  easier  to  be  a 
heroine  if  you  know  you  are  some  one's  ideal." 
I  have  always  been  given  to  a  measure  of 
self-analysis ;    and  though  I  have  often  had 
occasion  to  disapprove  of  myself,  I  have  at 
least  never  failed  to  find  myself  interesting. 
This  may  sound  sadly  vain,  but  indeed  I  think 
that  to  endeavour  to  form  a  fairly  true  esti- 
mate of  one's  own  capacities  is  not  vanity, 
rather  is  it  the  highest  wisdom.     Certainly  one 
can  have  no  better  subject  for  study  than  one's 
self,  for  between  ourselves  and  our  fellows  there 
is  an  elusive  veil  which  is  never  wholly  raised, 
however  sincere  the  desire  for  mutual  frank- 
ness may  be.     "  Know  thyself  !  "    said  one 
of  the  Wise  Men  of  Ancient  Greece,  and  a 
modern  philosopher  says,  "  He  who  falls  in  love 
with  himself  enters  upon  a  lifelong  romance." 
We  tend  to  become  what  we  think  we  are  ; 
moreover,  for  lack  of  patience  to  apply  a  truer 
standard,  the  world  is  very  apt  to  take  us  at 
our  own  valuation.     The  man,  however  gifted, 
who  is  timid,  self -distrustful,  and  irresolute, 
has  but  a  poor  chance  of  persuading  his  fellows 
that  he  merits  their  honour  and  consideration  ; 
while  the  man  who  looks  out  upon  life  with 


OURSELVES   AND    OUR   FOOD      37 

the  calm  confidence  of  one  who  sees  few  better 
and  many  worse  than  himself,  who  is  staunch 
to  certain  sane  ideals,  and  who  respects  his 
own  limitations,  succeeds  where  the  man  of 
greater  gifts  but  of  less  self-confidence  will  fail. 

He  who  accepts  his  own  personality  appre- 
ciatively, as  a  piece  of  work  not  designed  by 
himself  nor  by  blind  chance,  but  by  an  Om- 
niscient Power  Who  sees  the  end  as  clearly 
as  the  beginning,  is  not  belittled  by  his  self- 
reverence,  rather  is  his  whole  outlook  on  life 
exalted  ;  his  actions  become  noble,  altruistic, 
in  a  manner  impossible  to  a  man  who  despises 
himself  and  who  has  but  scant  belief  in  his 
own  power  to  influence  his  fellows  or  to  com- 
mand the  world's  admiration  and  respect. 
Confidence  in  one's  self  is  positive,  hopeful, 
strong  ;  self-mistrust  is  negative,  enervating, 
weak  ;  thus  the  belief  in  one's  power  to  do  a 
thing  makes  it  more  possible  of  accomplish- 
ment, and  I  count  that  man  wise  who,  with- 
out unworthy  vanity,  unheeding  the  worthless 
approbation  of  the  fickle  many,  yet  has  his 
nature  so  perfectly  poised  that  he  moves  through 
life  in  calm  self-reliance  and  reasonable  pride. 

This  is  a  sad  digression ;  but  it  shall  stand, 
since  inasmuch  as  all  self-revelation  is  interest- 
ing, I  intend  in  this  little  book  to  present 


38         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

you  with  myself  amongst  other  things.  Are 
we  not  all  engaged  in  probing,  questioning, 
and  proving  each  other's  personalities  ?  Is 
not  all  Friendship  just  an  attempt  to  look  over 
the  dividing  wall  into  another  soul's  garden, 
and  Love  but  a  passionate  desire  to  taste  the 
fruits  which  grow  therein  ?  We  are  each  so 
lonely,  in  spite  of  propinquity  and  speech  ;  our 
modern  life  is  so  built  round  with  high  barriers 
of  convention,  tradition,  and  dread  of  origi- 
nality, that  a  man  seldom  dares  to  show  himself 
to  his  fellows  frankly  as  he  is,  and  a  bare  soul 
seems  in  our  day  a  positive  indecency. 

But  because  I  am  so  obscure  that  you  will 
never  identify  me,  and  because  I  am  an  Irish- 
woman, and  therefore  by  nature  a  rebel,  I 
purpose  in  this  little  journal  occasionally  to 
give  you  myself  and  my  thoughts — the  best 
and  the  worst  of  me.  Not,  if  I  can  help  it, 
as  others  have  done  in  so  many  biographies 
and  diaries,  an  idealised  self,  with  a  simper 
and  a  pretty  pose,  reminiscent  of  the  foot- 
lights and  a  properly  appreciative  audience  ; 
not  as  the  woman  I  ought  to  be,  or  the  woman 
I  am  thought  to  be,  but  just  the  woman  I  am. 
If  I  should  be  betrayed  into  affectation,  pray 
waste  no  time  over  me,  but  toss  me  aside. 
But  if,  here  and  there,  I  succeed  in  lifting  the 


OURSELVES   AND    OUR    FOOD      39 

veil  and  truthfully  presenting  my  thoughts, 
myself,  and  my  life,  then  you  will  be  the  richer 
by  the  knowledge  of  another  human  soul, 
travelling  the  same  road  as  yourself,  bound 
for  the  same  goal  at  last. 

We  have  achieved  what  we  should  once  have 
thought  the  impossible.  We  live,  and  live 
well,  the  two  of  us,  upon  less  than  ten  shillings 
a  week.  Our  food  is  appetising,  varied,  rich 
in  all  the  constituents  necessary  for  a  perfect 
diet,  and  it  is  supplemented  by  a  delightful  red 
wine  of  the  country,  mellow,  with  an  occasional 
slight  sparkle  lurking  in  its  depths — neither 
claret  nor  burgundy,  but  first  cousin  to  both — 
an  addition  to  our  fare  which,  to  true  Omarites 
such  as  we  are,  is  a  daily  pleasure,  and  which 
costs  us  at  the  rate  of  three-half-pence  a  bottle. 

Of  course  we  are  not  flesh-eaters  ;  a  fact 
which  we  have  never  had  reason  to  regret. 
However  attractive  to  palate  and  eye  the  final 
product  on  the  table  may  be,  any  one  who  has 
seen  brains,  sweetbread,  liver,  or  other  animal 
parts  before  cooking,  or  who  is  sensitive  to  the 
peculiar  odour  of  mortality  with  which  one  is 
assailed  in  the  shops  where  the  dead  bodies  of 
the  animals  hang,  will  understand  how  beauti- 
ful I  feel  it  to  be  to  ha»ve  found  a  nourishing 


40         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

dietary  from  which  such  shuddering  horrors 
are  banished. 

Was  it  Thoreau  who  said  that  if  each  man 
and  woman  had  to  do  their  own  daily  mur- 
dering, instead  of  paying  to  have  it  done  for 
them,  as  now,  from  very  shame  and  horror 
they  would  soon  cease  to  kill  to  eat  ? 

For  ourselves,  our  health  is  better,  we  are 
lighter  in  spirits,  more  clear-headed  and 
"  workish  "  than  we  ever  were  in  the  days 
when  we  benightedly  thought  that  animal 
food  was  a  necessity  for  physical  well-being. 
As  that  same  wise  Thoreau  wrote  long  ago, 
"  Whatever  my  own  practice  may  be,  I  have 
no  doubt  that  it  is  a  part  of  the  destiny  of  the 
human  race,  in  its  gradual  improvement,  to 
leave  off  eating  animals,  as  surely  as  the 
savage  tribes  have  left  off  eating  each  other 
when  they  came  in  contact  with  the  more 
civilised.  ...  If  the  day  and  the  night  are 
such  that  you  greet  them  with  joy,  and  life 
emits  a  fragrance  like  flowers  and  sweet- 
scented  herbs,  is  more  elastic,  more  starry, 
more  immortal — that  is  your  success." 

And  that  success  has  long  been  ours.  Of 
course  at  first  we  blundered  along,  experi- 
menting, and  failing  often.  We  started,  as 
many  do,  with  such  a  fear  of  not  eating  a 


OURSELVES   AND    OUR   FOOD     41 

sufficient  amount  of  the  equivalent-to-meat 
constituent — protein — that  we  got  violent  in- 
digestion from  the  vast  numbers  of  beans  we 
thought  it  necessary  to  consume  ;  from  which 
we  reacted  to  an  excess  of  starchy  food  ;  but 
by  degrees  we  have  grown  wiser,  and  after 
careful  calculations,  and  even,  at  first,  weighing 
the  different  amounts,  we  have  now  so  ap- 
portioned everything  that  our  diet  is  both 
"  pleasurable  and  profitable  " — to  body  and 
purse. 

I  append  a  list  of  our  weekly  expenditure 
on  food,  showing  how  the  ten  shillings  is  ap- 
proximated. 

s.  d. 

Milk         26 

Bread 12 

Wine 10£ 

Eggs        24 

Oatmeal  10 

Beans  and  fish  . .          ..06 

Apples  and  figs  . .          . .     0     3J 

Potatoes  01 

Onions  for  soup  . .          ..01 

Macaroni,  rice,  flour    . .          ..03 

Sugar 03 

Nuts  for  butter  ..          ..03 

Olive  oil  for  cooking  . .          . .     03 
Salt  and  pepper  . .          . .     0     0£ 

9  lO 


42         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

We  are  lavish  with  milk  and  eggs,  both  from 
inclination  and  because  they  are  rich  in  the 
"  fat  "  which  we  should  otherwise  lack.  That 
necessity  is  also  provided  by  the  oatmeal, 
which  we  take  with  our  morning  and  evening 
meal.  We  have  to  pay  dearly  for  it,  as  oat- 
meal is  not  usual  in  this  country,  and  the  weekly 
shilling  shown  represents  but  one  packet  of 
prepared  oats,  procured  from  stores  which 
specialise  in  English  articles. 

We  take  a  certain  amount  of  beans  each  day 
in  some  form  or  other,  supplanted  occasionally 
by  fish,  which  we  can  buy  here  for  a  low  price — 
fifty  sardines  or  a  great  plate  of  tiny  mackerel 
for  three-halfpence,  or  a  large  fresh  haddock 
for  fourpence.  Our  baker  brings  us  four  small 
loaves  daily.  I  have  grown  in  our  field  some 
of  the  tall  cabbages  which  are  universal  here, 
for  green  vegetables  ;  bay  leaves  for  flavouring, 
mint,  and  healthful  dandelion  for  salad  the 
hedges  supply.  We  can  get  good  figs  for 
stewing  at  twopence  per  pound,  eight  large 
apples  for  a  penny,  and  a  long  straw  strand 
of  onions,  lasting  for  months,  for  fourpence. 

I  must  confess  to  one  daily  luxury  which 
does  not  figure  in  my  list,  since  a  certain  be- 
nevolent fairy  sends  me  a  supply  each  birth- 
day— tea,  which  is  a  prohibitive  price  here  in 


OURSELVES    AND    OUR   FOOD      43 

Portugal  (about  8s.  per  pound),  the  duty  on 
it  being  very  heavy.  In  winter  I  make  a 
delicious  substitute  for  cocoa  with  flour 
which  has  been  well  browned  in  the  oven, 
boiled  in  milk,  and  a  few  drops  of  vanilla 
added. 

We  have  a  choice  of  many  kind  of  beans. 
There  is  a  certain  brown  bean  which  makes 
a  peculiarly  meaty  and  delicious  soup,  which 
would  deceive  any  flesh  devotee  by  its  appe- 
tising odour  when  cooking  and  good  flavour 
when  served.  Then  there  is  a  good  mixture 
of  white,  yellow,  and  red  beans  ;  the  big  white 
haricots,  which,  stewed  in  milk,  with  a  slight 
thickening  of  barley  or  rice,  and  a  pinch  of 
finely  chopped  parsley  added  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, make  a  delicate  and  delicious  soup,  or 
fried  in  olive  oil,  after  stewing,  are  very  tasty. 
Then  there  are  the  grdo  de  bico,  a  kind  of  peas, 
with  useful  properties  which,  as  garbanzos 
in  Spain,  are  as  invariably  served  as  our  pota- 
toes are  at  home.  There  are  also  quaint  little 
peas  called  "  little  monks,"  which  they 
amusingly  resemble ;  and  other  varieties  of 
the  legume  family. 

The  secret  of  success  in  all  bean  cookery  is 
to  soak  the  beans  in  salted  water  for  twenty- 
four  hours  before  cooking,  and  then  to  let 


44         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

them  boil  gently  for  seven  or  eight  hours  more. 
They  cannot  be  hurried.  And  in  all  vegetarian 
cookery  a  great  essential  to  success  is  to  vary 
your  flavours  ;  not  to  be  content  to  serve  the 
proper  foods  in  the  proper  quantities,  but  to 
make  them  as  different  and  as  appetising  as 
possible.  Good  curries  can  be  made  with 
beans,  or  with  cold  fish. 

Pythagoras  would  not  eat  beans  because 
they  had  souls,  he  averred.  We  do  not  share 
his  scruples,  making  them  the  foundation  of 
our  daily  meals  ;  and  if  we  thus  unwittingly 
speed  souls  upon  their  upward  way,  we  expect 
them  rather  to  be  grateful  to  us  for  their 
accelerated  passage  ! 

Stewed  figs  are  wholesome  and  good,  and 
do  not  require  sweetening,  which  is  a  point  in 
their  favour,  as  sugar  is  very  dear  here — six- 
pence a  pound.  Indeed,  everything  which  is 
imported  is  raised  to  a  much  higher  price  than 
at  home,  by  reason  of  the  heavy  duties.  The 
only  wise  course  for  poor  folk  is  to  live  as 
entirely  as  may  be  upon  the  products  of  the 
country,  which  are  all  good  and  cheap,  as  the 
people  who  buy  them  are  so  poor.  Such  adapt- 
ability is  essential,  if  one  would  be  a  successful 
world-citizen  ;  and  in  whatever  country  The 
Philosopher  and  I  have  chanced  to  be,  we 


OURSELVES    AND    OUR    FOOD      45 

have  eaten  as  far  as  possible  as  the  people 
themselves  did  ;  knowing  that  the  habitual 
fare  is  usually  the  result  of  the  selection  and 
economical  consideration  of  generations. 

Butter  is  to  be  got  in  the  town,  at  a  high 
price,  and  I  have  once  or  twice  seen  an  un- 
wholesome-looking bit  of  pale  substance  under 
a  glass  in  the  village  stores  ;  but  though  milk 
is  good  and  plentiful,  the  country  folk  do  not 
seem  to  cultivate  the  art  of  butter-making. 
So  I  make  a  good  substitute  with  nuts  to 
spread  upon  our  bread,  pulverising  them  in 
my  mincing-machine  with  a  special  nut-butter 
disc.  Walnut  butter  is  especially  delectable, 
besides  being  a  most  valuable  form  of  proteid, 
and  rich  in  oil.  Pea-nut  butter  is  also  good, 
and  one  soon  grows  accustomed  to  the  peculiar 
"  twang "  of  these  humble  little  nuts,  es- 
pecially if  a  judicious  pinch  of  salt  is  intro- 
duced into  the  butter-making. 


CHAPTER   V 

DOMESTICITIES 

MY  kitchen  is  but  a  cupboard  in  size,  though 
quite  sufficiently  large  for  our  simple  cuisine. 
One  side  of  it  is  occupied  by  a  most  indis- 
pensable piece  of  furniture — high,  broad,  and 
made  of  white  wood — a  kind  of  combination 
larder,  dresser,  sink,  and  store-cupboard,  in 
appearance  not  unlike  the  cwpwrdd  tri-darn 
which  one  sees  in  old  Welsh  houses.  At  the 
top,  the  larder,  an  open  cupboard,  is  shielded 
from  flies  by  a  curtain  of  white  net.  Below, 
my  modest  stock  of  crockery  is  displayed  ; 
below  that  again,  there  is  a  rack  for  draining 
the  plates,  then  a  broad  sink  with  an  outlet 
pipe,  and  beneath  that,  to  the  floor,  a  deep 
store-cupboard  with  two  doors. 

Our  pots  and  crocks  would  be  an  unending 
source  of  joy  to  a  Pre-Raphaelite.  From  our 
basins  and  soup  plates  the  Virgin  herself  might 
have  eaten,  so  quaint  and  crude  are  they  in 

46 


DOMESTICITIES  47 

form  and  colouring.  There  are  two  great 
terra-cotta  jugs  for  drawing  water  from  the 
spring — precisely  the  same  in  form  as  the  one 
to  be  seen  in  pictures  which  the  woman  of 
Samaria  carried  on  her  head  when  she  met 
the  Stranger's  gaze  at  the  well,  little  guessing 
that  her  Master  looked  upon  her — and  which 
are  balanced  on  our  women's  heads  in  the 
same  Eastern  fashion.  There  are  odd  little 
unglazed  terra-cotta  crocks  for  heating  morsels 
of  food,  similar  in  quaint  shape  and  rude  finish 
to  the  ones  taken  from  ancient  sepulchres, 
and  costing  absurdly  little. 

For  my  cooking  utensils — from  England  I 
brought  a  cast-aluminium  stewpan  and  frying- 
pan,  a  fish-basket,  a  potato-masher,  and  a 
mincing-machine  :  these,  with  some  of  the 
cheap  tin  pots  of  the  peasantry,  form  all  my 
stock. 

Then  there  is  a  broom,  a  pail,  and  a  scrubbing 
brush,  and  that,  with  the  exception  of  our  tin 
travelling  bath,  is  all.  No  kitchen  stove,  and 
no  place  for  one  ;  not  a  chimney  nor  a  fire- 
place in  the  house.  Imagine  the  despair  of  an 
English  cook,  deprived  of  her  kitchen  range, 
and  commanded  to  prepare  a  dinner  !  But 
also  picture  the  economy  possible  to  a  menage 
in  whose  lower  regions  there  lurks  no  huge 


48         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

monster  with  gaping  jaws,  insatiably  consuming 
coal,  coal,  coal,  from  earliest  morning  until 
late  at  night. 

My  cooking  is  almost  entirely  done  upon  a 
fogareiro — a  tiny  iron  stove  for  burning  char- 
coal, resembling  in  shape  and  size  a  shallow 
pudding  basin,  with  side  handles  and  a  grating 
in  the  bottom,  fixed  on  a  little  stand.  This 
is  placed  on  the  floor,  in  a  corner  of  one  of 
the  deep  granite  window  recesses,  and  here  it 
glows  steadily,  unostentatiously,  through  the 
long  hours,  doing  its  good  work  upon  the  beans, 
the  porridge,  and  the  contents  of  other  pots 
and  pans  which  are  balanced  upon  it  in  hair- 
breadth fashion.  Sometimes  I  have  as  many 
as  five  cooking  utensils  clustering  over  this 
tiny  fire  ;  and  in  our  unregenerate  days  I  have 
cooked  a  dinner  upon  it  comprising  boiled 
fowl,  bread  sauce,  potatoes,  greens,  custard, 
and  stewed  apples  ! 

For  emergencies  there  is  a  little  eighteen- 
penny  oil  stove,  but  petroleum  is  so  dear  here 
that  I  do  not  use  it  more  than  can  be  helped  ; 
whilst  my  tiny  fogareiro  burns  from  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning  until  seven  o'clock  at  night, 
and  the  charcoal  costs  us  one  shilling  per  week. 

Our  modest  stock  of  household  silver  was 
stolen  from  the  trunk  in  which  it  was  packed, 


DOMESTICITIES  49 

somewhere  en  route — a  loss  which  would  have 
distressed  me  more  than  it  did  had  not  The 
Philosopher  explained  most  reasonably  that  it 
was  so  much  the  less  to  take  care  of  and  to 
worry  over,  and  as  we  fortunately  had  a  few 
forks,  spoons,  and  four  precious  knives  in  our 
luncheon  basket,  it  has  probably  been  "  all  for 
the  best,"  as  good  people  are  fond  of  assuring 
one  that  other  people's  misfortunes  always 
are. 

When  The  Philosopher  and  I  first  kept 
house,  I  used  to  fume  and  grieve  terribly  over 
breakages  and  other  domestic  fatalities,  to  his 
great  amusement,  until  he  took  my  education 
in  hand,  and  taught  me  to  emulate  the  calm 
of  the  lady  in  Byron's  poem,  who  was — 

"  Mistress  of  herself,  though  china  fall." 

"  For,  oh,  most  foolish  Pearl,"  he  would  say, 
"  of  what  benefit  is  it  to  lose  two  good  things 
by  the  accident — the  article  itself,  and  your 
own  serenity  ?  " 

We  have  a   rapariga  who    comes  for  two 
hours  each  morning  to  do  our  simple  house 
work.     She  answers  to  the  name  of  Michelina, 
and   somehow  it   seems  to   befit   her  pretty, 
roguish  self.     She  is  a  dainty  little  person,  with 

4 


50         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

sparkling  dark  eyes  and  brown  curls  which 
have  a  way  of  escaping  from  the  restraining 
folds  of  her  head-kerchief,  and  she  goes  about 
her  work  with  an  earnestness  and  method 
which  is  not  the  least  of  her  charms  for  me. 

Naturally,  we  and  our  foreign  ways  both 
interest  her  greatly,  and  she  will  pause,  broom 
or  pail  in  hand,  to  watch  the  progress  of  The 
Philosopher's  painting,  or  to  gaze  at  the  wonder 
of  my  typewriter  at  work,  until  recalled  to 
duty  by  a  gently  suggestive  "  Que  quere  ?  " 
from  one  of  us. 

Then,  when  all  the  washing-up  is  done,  the 
fogareiro  lighted,  and  the  little  house  put  in 
order  for  the  day,  I  give  her  a  bundle  of  soiled 
linen  and  a  chunk  of  soap,  and  her  little  bare 
feet  patter  off,  with  her  short  full  skirt  co- 
quettishly  swinging,  and  her  bright  head- 
kerchief  fluttering  in  the  wind,  down  to  the 
brook-side,  where  she  joins  the  merry,  chat- 
tering group  of  washerwomen,  returning  an 
hour  later  to  spread  out  to  dry  upon  the  grass 
the  spotless  clean  clothes,  whose  snowy  white- 
ness would  arouse  the  envy  of  any  English 
housewife.  And  this  without  any  "  washing- 
day  "  horrors.  No  sloppy  scullery,  no  steamy 
copper  (with  another  hungry  fire  to  be  fed), 
no  soda,  nor  blue,  nor  washing-powder  :  just 


DOMESTICITIES  51 

the  soft  water  of  the  running  stream,  a  little 
soap,  and  the  beneficent  sunshine. 

What  a  popular  event  washing-day  would 
be  with  our  maids  at  home  in  England  if  it 
could  only  mean  a  morning  in  the  open  air 
and  the  sunshine,  at  the  stream's  side,  with 
the  high  road  winding  by  above  to  give  occa- 
sional distraction,  and  the  gay  companionship 
of  half  a  dozen  fellow-washers  to  lighten  the 
labour  !  No  longer  would  the  ominous  phrase, 
"  no  washing,"  figure  in  all  domestic  adver- 
tisements :  rather  the  grievance  would  be  if 
there  were  none. 

But  then,  alas  !  to  make  that  possible,  in 
addition  to  the  simple  custom  this  wonderful 
climate  would  need  to  be  imported. 

Michelina,  for  all  her  daily  services,  counts 
herself  well  paid  with  a  monthly  wage  of  eight 
tostoes — about  three  shillings  and  fourpence — 
and  a  proud  and  delighted  little  maid  is  she 
when  pay-day  comes  round.  Never  do  the 
saucepans  shine  so  brightly,  nor  the  boards 
gleam  so  spotlessly,  as  on  that  day  ;  and, 
when  possible,  her  satisfaction  is  also  shown 
by  the  presentation  of  a  big  bunch  of  flowers 
from  the  garden  of  her  mother's  cottage. 
Once  there  chanced  to  be  a  bottle  of  wine 
lying  mysteriously  broken  on  the  floor  of  the 


52         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

store-room  after  the  rapariga  had  been  sweeping 
there,  but  the  next  morning  brought  such  a 
beautiful  bouquet  that,  in  the  face  of  its  re- 
morseful loveliness,  I  had  not  the  heart  to 
press  awkward  inquiries. 


CHAPTER   VI 

ONE   OF  OUR   SUNDAYS 

October. 

TO-DAY  is  Sunday,  a  calm,  fresh  autumn 
morning.  The  Philosopher  and  I  have  early 
betaken  ourselves  up  our  Happy  Valley  to  a 
favourite  spot  on  the  hill-side  among  the  pines, 
where,  between  the  stems,  we  can  glimpse 
the  shimmering  blue  of  the  distant  sea,  and  the 
quiet  is  only  occasionally  disturbed  by  the 
hoarse  cries  of  the  magpies  as  they  flit,  far 
above  our  heads,  in  the  tall  tree-tops,  or  the 
self-absorbed  drone  of  some  belated  humble-bee, 
searching  for  the  honey  that  is  over  in  the 
heather  amongst  the  bracken.  Here  we  re- 
cline in  fragrant  nests  of  pine  needles  and  fern. 
Clean  garments  seem  to  me  to  be  somehow 
part  of  the  Sunday  "  thought  of  God  "  ;  as 
we  should  attire  ourselves  in  our  best  for  a 
visit  to  an  honoured  friend,  so  it  is  pleasant  to 
wear  pure,  fresh  raiment  on  the  day  which 
we  have  specially  devoted  to  communion  with 

53 


54         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

that  most  dear  Friend.  So  I  have  donned  a 
clean  white  frock  and  my  best  silver  waist- 
belt  ;  and  as  fresh  clothes  and  a  decent  tie 
were  cunningly  placed  at  my  dear  Philosopher's 
bedside,  and  his  ordinary  ones  abstracted,  even 
he  is  looking  almost  English  in  respectability. 

On  the  way  I  found  a  few  late  blackberries 
and  a  spray  of  most  sweet  honeysuckle. 
Amongst  the  bracken  the  spiders  overnight 
had  woven  great  wide  webs,  only  this  morning 
to  find  them  useless  for  sporting  purposes, 
each  weighed  down  in  every  mesh  with  heavy 
dewdrops,  covering  the  gorse  and  heather  with 
a  cloth  of  silver,  rarely  beautiful  in  the  sun- 
light. 

There  is  a  delicious  crispness  in  the  air, 
which  is  far  removed  from  chill,  but  is  ex- 
hilirating,  making  motion  a  pleasure,  causing 
a  subtle  feeling  of  cleanliness,  purity,  and 
health.  So  had  it  intoxicated  us,  that  we 
marched  here  along  the  narrow,  sunny  tracks 
amongst  the  brambles  up  the  brook-side, 
chanting  some  of  the  grand  old  hymns  which, 
perchance,  our  loved  ones  in  England  were 
singing  at  the  same  moment  at  their  morning 
service. 

Now,  The  Philosopher  lies  absorbed  in  his 
well-worn  Montaigne,  and  I  have  been 


ONE    OF    OUR    SUNDAYS  55 

lazily,  blissfully  gazing  up  at  the  perfectness 
of  the  intense  blue  of  the  sky  as  seen  between 
the  olive  green  of  the  pine  branches,  singing 
softly,  and  half  unconsciously,  to  my  own 
happy  self,  that  most  wistful  prayer  to  "  The 
Pillar  of  Cloud  "— 

"  Lead,  kindly  Light,  .  .  .  lead  Thou  me  on  !  " 

Ah,  there  was  a  time  when  my  poor  little 
Protestant  soul  used  to  shiver  with  appre- 
hension when  I  voiced  that  appeal.  Black 
doubt  would  shadow  the  sunlight  of  my  con- 
fidence in  God's  care.  How  could  I  hope  that 
my  feeble,  inarticulate  cries  for  guidance  in 
life's  crises  would  avail  when  Newman  could 
send  up  this  appeal  from  the  depths  of  his 
tortured  heart,  at  the  cross-roads  of  his  life, 
and  that  for  all  response  his  great  soul  was 
permitted  to  stumble  into  the  quagmires  of 
superstition,  dogma,  and  intellectual  bondage  ! 

Now,  from  a  little  farther  up  the  mountain 
side,  I  can  see  that  his  prayer  was  answered — 
given  his  nature — in  the  wisest  way  possible ; 
for  even  as  some  are  content  to  feel  the  vibra- 
tions from  The  Heart  of  the  World  stirring  in 
their  own,  casting  off  all  shackles  of  Time  and 
Sense  and  Formula  as  they  project  their  free 
souls  into  the  Spiritual—"  The  Real  "—in  that 


56         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

communion  which  alone  is  true  worship,  so 
other  natures  must  have  symbols  and  stately 
ritual  to  typify  their  union  with  the  Spiritual ; 
and  if  it  helps  them  ? — Well !  If  the  dervish 
in  his  giddy  waltz  can  so  "  feel  God  "  better, 
then  for  heaven's  sake  let  him  dance  ;  if  the 
woman,  glibly  mumbling  off  pages  of  an  un- 
known tongue  in  the  course  of  a  ceremonial 
appealing  to  the  senses;  if  to  have  the  ear, 
the  eye,  the  nose  stimulated,  aids  her  to  draw 
any  nearer  to  the  Unseen — then  for  her  such 
things  are  a  positive  good.  Some  are  helped 
by  the  materialisation  of  the  instinct  of  wor- 
ship, others  are  stifled  by  it.  Creeds  and 
dogmas,  what  are  they  all  but  the  uplifting  of 
the  soul  of  man  to  The  Good  from  Whom  it 
has  come,  according  to  the  rites  which  seem 
to  help  it  the  most  ?  Whether  they  follow  the 
teaching  of  one  great  Guide  or  the  other, 
Buddha,  Mahomet,  or  The  Christ — climbing 
upward  by  whichever  narrow  way  seems 
indicated  after  their  Guide's  precepts  have 
been  twisted,  maimed,  and  misconstrued  in 
the  passing  of  the  centuries — matters  very  little, 
just  a  little  less  or  more  of  happiness  and 
light.  Eastern  gospel  or  Western  gospel,  they 
are  each  paths,  made  misleading  often  by 
translation  and  tradition,  but  still  paths,  tend- 


ONE    OF    OUR    SUNDAYS  57 

ing  upwards,  by  their  divers  routes,  to  one  Final 
Goal.  It  is  the  impulse  to  climb  that  matters. 
I  think  that  what  one  has  most  to  dread 
nowadays  is  the  atrophy  of  the  soul ;  that 
terrible  deadness  which  steals  over  it  when  it 
has  breathed  too  long  and  too  deeply  in  the 
miasmas  of  the  Valley  of  Things  Material ; 
when  the  body  seems  all-sufficing,  and  the 
baubles  of  time  and  sense — the  fleeting  things 
we  can  see  and  touch  and  handle — become  to 
us  the  Real,  and  the  things  of  the  spirit  seem 
the  things  outside  Life,  instead  of  its  very 
essence.  Then,  indeed,  those  who  are  brave  of 
us  would  cry — 

"  Lord,  Thy  most  pointed  pleasure  take, 
And  stab  my  spirit  broad  awake  ; 
Or,  Lord,  if  too  obdurate  I, 
Choose  Thou,  before  that  spirit  die, 
A  piercing  pain,  a  killing  sin, 
And  to  my  dead  heart  run  them  in  !  " 

Blessed  be  any  route — pain,  pleasure,  loss, 
humiliation,  in  daily  life  ;  ceremonial,  dogma, 
genuflexions,  vestments,  in  worship  —  any 
path  by  which  the  soul  of  man  can  be  helped 
in  its  progress  upward  from  The  Valley  of  The 
Senses  to  The  Hill  of  God. 

But  for  us,  The  Philosopher  and  I,  we  are 
pure  pagans  in  our  methods.  No  smaller 


58         A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

church  will  suffice  for  us  than  the  dome  of 
God's  own  blue  sky  ;  we  need  no  choir  but  the 
happy  birds,  no  preacher  other  than  the  solemn, 
holy  whispers  of  the  tall  pines  rustling  in  the 
wind  above  our  heads,  no  prayers  more  formu- 
lated than  the  silent  turning  of  our  souls  to 
The  Heart  of  the  World,  Who  knows  us  through 
and  through,  and  understands,  and  cares  ;  and 
Who  surely  draws  near  to  us,  across  the  ferns 
and  moss,  through  the  shadowy,  sunflecked 
glades,  between  the  dark  pine  stems,  of  this  our 
Paradise,  and  with  His  presence  blesses  us, 
His  simple,  worshipful  children. 

Diderot  appealed  to  the  Frenchmen  of  his 
day  to  "  set  their  God  at  liberty."  Ah,  "  What 
children  are  we,  erecting  churches  and  chapels 
to  exclude  infinite  space,  which  is  the  most 
appropriate  symbol,  did  we  but  reflect,  of 
Infinity  !  "  But,  "  Some  people  have  to  go  to 
church.  They  would  forget  God  existed  alto- 
gether if  they  didn't." 

Well,  if  it  helps  !  But  as  for  us,  we  would 
aspire  to  be  as  Spinoza  was  described — "  a 
God-intoxicated  man  "  ;  eating,  breathing, 
sleeping,  sorrowing,  or  rejoicing — living  ever 
conscious  of  the  all-permeating  essence  of  The 
Creator,  of  the  Divine  in  nature  ;  knowing 


ONE    OF    OUR    SUNDAYS  59 

ourselves  to  be  connected  by  inseverable 
tendons  with  The  Heart  of  the  World,  as  simply, 
as  naturally,  as  confidingly  as  our  lowlier 
brethren,  the  dear  birds  and  beasts.  That 
seems  better  than  all  the  systems  which  we  term 
"  religions  "  :  to  "  feel  God  "  the  whole  time. 
Then,  to  act  unworthily,  ignobly,  becomes 
an  offence  against  the  nature  which  we  draw 
from  Him,  and  less  and  less  possible.  That 
is  what  the  old  Puritans  meant,  I  think, 
by  their  "  growth  in  grace  "  ;  and  that  is  what 
we  mean  by  "  feeling  God." 

To  so  many  people  He  seems  to  be  just  an 
idol,  shut  up  in  a  box  on  all  secular  occasions, 
but  taken  out  and  dusted  and  prayed  to  on 
Sundays  and  marriage  and  burial  days.  An 
idol  whose  worship  is  accounted  to  be  "  so 
respectable  !  "  but  not  to  be  talked  about  nor 
thought  about,  nor  to  have  any  bearing  upon 
the  daily  events  of  life.  Indeed,  an  awkward 
topic  of  conversation,  the  introduction  of 
which  is  considered  "  bad  form,"  as  being 
calculated  to  make  conversation  languish,  and 
to  put  people  into  a  dreary,  stilted,  and  un- 
natural mood. 

Now,  I  wonder  whether  any  one  has  dared 
to  think,  as  I  love  to  do,  that,  as  we  are  the 
creations  of  God,  and  as  all  the  best  and  most 


60         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

endearing  qualities  of  our  natures  proceed 
from  God  (for  if  not  from  Him,  then  whence 
come  they  ?)  and  as  they  can  be  but  faint, 
faint  reflections  of  Himself — since  the  part 
must  be  less  than  the  whole — He  must  neces- 
sarily Himself  possess  them  all  in  far  greater 
intensity.  Therefore,  besides  having  the 
graver  noble  qualities  of  truth,  justice,  honour, 
magnanimity  and  compassion,  He  must  also 
be  gay,  witty,  frank,  kindly,  generous,  bright- 
thoughted,  and  must  have  a  keen  sense  of 
humour.  No  truly  charming  qualities  of  your 
most  finished  modern  product,  a  "  gentleman," 
but  God  must  have  them  to  an  unrealisable 
extent.  Your  most  delightful  friend,  whom 
you  love  to  be  with  and  to  share  every  thought, 
grave  and  gay,  who  amuses,  stimulates,  and 
ennobles  you,  who  by  his  very  existence  makes 
the  world  a  better  place  for  you,  can  give 
you  but  a  mere  faint,  pale,  far-off  reflection  of 
the  delightful  nature  of  The  Great  Heart  of 
The  World,  Whom  Marcus  Aurelius  termed 
The  All,  Whom  we  call  God ;  while  unamiable 
and  unworthy  characters  are  merely  farther 
off  from  Him,  have  more  lessons  to  learn,  and 
a  farther  way  to  journey  upwards  before  they 
too  begin  to  reflect  stray  gleams  of  His  own 
beautiful  nature  to  our  consciousness. 


ONE    OF    OUR   SUNDAYS          61 

I  once  lay  in  one  of  the  wards  of  a  big  hos- 
pital when  a  clergyman  came  to  pay  his  weekly 
ministration  to  the  sick  and  suffering  occupants. 
He  was  obviously  most  earnestly  well-inten- 
tioned, for  nothing  but  a  real  sense  of  duty 
would  have  taken  him  from  bed  to  bed,  dis- 
tributing little  tracts,  saying  a  few  perfunctory 
words  to  each  recipient,  and  appearing  mildly 
obtuse  to  the  sullen  rejoinders  of  some,  the 
silence  of  others,  and  the  pointed  rudeness 
of  a  few.  Then,  from  the  centre  of  the  ward, 
he  recited  a  few  formal  collects  and  delivered 
a  short  sermon,  in  dry,  conventional  tones, 
on — the  coming  Pan- Anglican  Conference  ! 
After  which  he  sighed,  and  went  his  way  to 
another  ward. 

Poor  blind,  well-meaning,  futile  man  !  In 
that  hospital  ward  the  dark  wings  of  the  Angel 
of  Death  were  almost  audible  to  those  who  had 
ears  to  hear.  He  had  indeed  come  at  mid- 
night the  previous  night,  and  had  hushed  the 
long,  long  moans  of  one  of  us  ;  he  might  return 
at  any  moment — his  sombre  shadow  was 
hovering  over  more  than  one.  Some,  in  terror 
and  sick  dread  of  the  unknown,  were  waiting 
to  face  the  surgeon's  knife,  others  were  stifling 
moans  as  the  quivering  flesh  smarted  and 
throbbed  in  the  first  painful  processes  of 


62         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

healing.  Most  of  us  were  in  pain,  and  all  of  us 
were  nervous,  overstrung,  scared  by  our  un- 
accustomed surroundings  and  by  vague  dread- 
ful possibilities.  Our  bodies — those  healthy, 
careless  bodies  which  had  been  wont  to  talk 
and  laugh  and  walk  without  thought  of  them- 
selves— seemed  now  to  be  seized  fast  in  the 
grip  of  a  stern  Power  who  might  at  any  mo- 
ment rack  them  with  unendurable  agony,  or 
wrest  them  from  us  altogether.  Too  many 
of  us  were  the  bread-winners,  and  to  this  per- 
sonal and  physical  distress  was  added  the 
gnawing  anxiety  as  to  the  welfare  of  those 
dependent  upon  us.  Though  we  were  so  in- 
articulate, we  badly  wanted  help.  We  wanted 
Some  One  to  lean  our  aching  hearts  upon  ; 
Some  One  who  understood ;  Some  One  with 
human  compassion — Who  cared  !  Ah,  if  he 
had  only  presented  to  us  some  such  a  kindly, 
powerful,  pitiful,  human  God-Friend  as  the 
one  I  have  been  deducing,  what  blessed  comfort 
and  security  might  have  crept  into  many  a 
poor,  frightened  heart ! 

But  so  far  removed  is  this  from  being  the 
proper  "  religious "  conception  of  a  grey, 
somewhat  stupid,  and  actively  revengeful  God, 
or  the  "  gigantic  clergyman  in  a  white  tie," 
who  is  presented  to  us  for  our  enlightenment  in 


ONE    OF   OUR   SUNDAYS  63 

so  many  of  our  churches,  that  I  know  I  must 
indefinably  shock  you. 

Well !  Even  as  I  write  these  words,  borne 
on  the  warm  breeze  across  the  pine-clad  hills, 
come  the  deep,  slow,  sonorous  notes  of  a  church 
bell,  announcing  the  hour  of  noon.  Its 
measured,  heavy  strokes  seem  pregnant  with 
memories  of  the  dead  centuries,  and  the  by- 
gone generations  of  men  who  have  lived  their 
brief  span  in  this  same  sunlight,  and  loved 
and  suffered,  and  struggled  a  little  upwards, 
and  passed  on.  And  the  pines  softly  wave 
their  green  branches  and  whisper  to  each  other 
that  it  all  matters  so  little — so  little  ! 


CHAPTER   VII 

YOUNG  PORTUGAL 

"  PORTUGAL'S  wrongs  are  great,  great ! — I  tell 
you,  senhora,  that  France  before  the  Revolution 
was  in  the  state  that  we  in  Portugal  are  to-day. 
And  the  end  must  be  the  same." 

I  glanced  lazily  up  at  the  young  man  from 
the  comfort  of  my  deck-chair.  A  calm  full 
moon  was  shining  overhead,  a  soft  warm  breeze 
just  stirred  my  hair,  and  we  were  ploughing 
our  way  through  the  Bay  of  Biscay  at  a  good 
fifteen  knots  an  hour.  There  was  a  ripple  of 
water  at  the  steamer's  side,  and  beyond,  where 
the  waves  swelled  up,  curved,  and  subsided 
again,  a  thousand  tiny  phosphorescences 
gleamed  and  disappeared  and  gleamed  again. 
The  moment  was  so  peaceful,  so  suited  for 
quiet  nocturnal  musings,  that  it  seemed  sadly 
out  of  harmony  to  be  strenuous. 

But  my  companion  had  no  such  compunction. 
He  leaned  against  the  deck-house  beside  my 

64 


YOUNG   PORTUGAL  65 

chair,  and  seemed  actually  to  vibrate  with 
intensity  of  feeling.  His  arms  were  folded 
across  his  chest,  and  his  big  dark  eyes  glared 
up  defiantly  at  the  moon,  as  though  in  that 
placid  luminary  he  descried  the  enemies  of  his 
suffering  country. 

My  lips  twitched  ;  he  was  a  mere  boy,  and 
he  was  looking  so  tragi-comically  defiant. 
Then  memory  recalled  the  terrible  happenings 
that  had  been  wrought  in  Portugal  by  the  pas- 
sionate sentiment  which  this  boy  was  voicing, 
and  I  grew  grave.  He  was  the  age  of  his  young 
king,  and  he  represented  the  mental  attitude 
of  thousands  of  young  fellows  in  his  country 
to-day — that  country  to  which  The  Philosopher 
and  I  were  returning,  where  we  had  found  our 
14  Walden "  and  had  made  our  home.  In- 
terest overcame  my  indolence  ;  I  sat  up  in  my 
chair  and  said  : 

"  Do  tell  me  more  about  it  all — the  trouble 
in  your  country,  I  mean.  As  an  English- 
woman I  only  know  that  we  were  very  fond 
of  your  King  Carlos " 

'  Yes  !  "  he  fiercely  interrupted.  "  You 
English  liked  him,  of  course,  because  he  was 
a  great  sportsman  and  what  you  call  a  good 
fellow.  That  is  all  you  know  or  cared  about. 
But  we  in  Portugal,  we  suffered  !  Ah,  Jesus  ! 

5 


66         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

Perhaps  he  did  not  mean  it ;  he  did  not  under- 
stand, and  he  listened  to  bad  counsellors. 
Though  our  unfortunate  country  is  so  poor, 
we  were  drained  of  money — unconstitutionally 
and  recklessly.  The  press  was  muzzled  ;  our 
mouths  were  silenced ;  no  man  was  a  free 
citizen.  And  then,  when  at  last  we  gained 
his  ear  and  implored  him  to  redress  the  wrongs 
inflicted  upon  us  by  his  hated  minister,  what 
happened  ?  Why,  he  referred  our  grievances 
to  the  very  tyrant  against  whose  injustice  we 
were  petitioning  !  Can  you  wonder,  senhora, 
that  we  were  driven  to  frenzy  by  it  all  ?  " 

'  You  surely  do  not  seek  to  justify  the  ter- 
rible, brutal  tragedy  of  last  year  ?  "  I  cried 
hotly. 

"  No — ah,  no  !  "  he  hastily  responded. 
"  That  was  the  bitterest  blow  to  all  honourable 
Republicans.  Our  hearts  were  wrung  with 
horror  !  And  we  all  realised  how  it  prejudiced 
our  cause  in  the  eyes  of  civilisation.  I  do  not 
— I  cannot — justify  that  :  I  only  explain  it. 
Where  there  are  great  evils,  senhora,  there 
you  must  expect  desperate  remedies.  On 
that  black  day — when  it  happened — there, 
in  the  bay,  were  anchored  the  ships  which  were 
to  carry  away  our  brothers  to  exile  and  dis- 
honour. And  for  what  ?  For  daring  to  speak 


YOUNG   PORTUGAL  67 

their  minds  !  For  daring  to  stand  up  for  their 
poor  and  voiceless  compatriots — for  resenting 
their  wrongs  !  The  king  was  on  his  way  to 
sign  their  doom.  And  there  seemed  no  hope 
of  better  things.  None  !  None  !  " 

"  But  at  any  rate  that  is  all  over  now,"  I 
ventured  soothingly.  "  Your  young  King 
Manoel  is  doing  all  he  can " 

'  Yes,"  he  responded,  half  reluctantly ; 
"  he  is  certainly  different.  He  wishes  to  do 
what  is  right,  I  do  believe.  He  is  repaying 
what  he  can  of  the  money  unjustly  taken,  and 
he  says  that  he  desires  the  country's  good ; 
but " 

'  Well,  what  would  you  have  more  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  He  cannot  perform  miracles  ;  but  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  you  have  the  prospect 
of  a  new  and  happier  era  for  your  country 
now." 

"  Ah  !  It  is  the  priesthood  !  "  Young  Por- 
tugal cried,  with  infinite  distaste.  "  The 
priesthood  !  they  are  the  curse  of  the  country. 
No  progress  is  possible  where  their  dominance  is 
absolute.  It  is  to  their  interest  to  keep  the 
people  ignorant,  or  their  power  would  be 
threatened.  And  if  they  have  our  king  in  their 
atrophying  clutch,  what  hope  have  we  ?  The 
cursed  Jesuit  influence  will  gradually  destroy 


68         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

his  liberal  tendencies.  And  his  mother's 
influence, — he  is  already  too  religious " 

"  And  for  that,  whom  have  you  but  your- 
selves to  thank  !  "  I  cried.  "  On  that  terrible 
day  of  regicide  and  murder,  when — in  "his  own 
capital,  surrounded  by  his  own  people — y cm- 
Ling  was  done  to  death  by  that  traitor's 
cowardly  shot,  you  drove  the  poor  boy  and 
his  mother  into  the  only  refuge  that  seemed 
left  to  them — the  arms  of  their  Church,  the 
consolations  of  religion.  I  am  no  Church- 
woman,  senhor,  I  feel  the  need  of  no  man- 
made  rites  between  my  soul  and  my  God  ; 
but  even  I  can  realise  that  if  your  young  king 
had  not  been  able  to  cling  to  the  support  of 
his  faith,  he  could  not  have  lived  beyond  that 
awful  hour." 

The  youth  at  my  side  glared  gloomily  across 
the  water  and  was  silent,  while  "  eight  bells  " 
chimed  clearly  out  from  the  fo 'castle  of  the 
steamer,  and  was  repeated  in  the  stern.  My 
indifference  was  deeply  stirred  now  ;  words 
came  surging  up,  and  out  of  my  ignorance  I 
spoke. 

"  If  I  dare  say  so,  senhor,  it  appears  to  me 
that  you  and  your  compatriots  are  now  in  the 
baffled  position  of  a  woman  who  has  been  de- 
prived of  a  long-standing  grievance.  You 


YOUNG   PORTUGAL  69 

had  wrongs ;  you  resented  them.  But  the 
chief  of  them  are  gone  now,  and  your  great 
reason  for  revolt  and  defiance  is  over.  For  the 
Past — surely  it  was  all  expiated  on  that  bloody 
day  !  Merciful  Time  should  be  permitted — 
in  humanity,  in  honour — to  consign  it  all  to 
the  waters  of  oblivion.  The  Future  is  Portu- 
gal's. You  have  a  young,  disinterested,  al- 
truistic monarch,  eager  to  understand  and  to 
aid  his  people's  needs.  As  to  any  undue  in- 
fluence of  the  priesthood — I  would  not  fear,  if 
I  were  you  !  King  Manoel  has  too  clear  a 
brain  ;  the  unescapable  influences  of  Life  will 
teach  him  ;  he  will  marry  ;  he  will  mature. 
The  whole  world  is  casting  off  the  dominance  of 
superstition.  Even  in  Italy,  its  headquarters, 
the  people  are  wrenching  off  the  shackles — are 
freeing  themselves.  Its  hour  is  sounding  ;  and 
its  death-knell  is  education.  Agitate  for  that, 
senhor !  Petition  for  that !  Make  sacrifices 
for  that !  Educate  !  Educate  !  Educate  ! 
and  you  can  afford  to  defy  that  ancient  bogey 
-Church." 

"  Progress  is  so  slow,"  returned  my  com- 
panion, in  hopeless  tones,  "  and  my  country 
is  so  poor " 

"  But  if  you  had  your  way,  if  you  esta- 
blished a  republic  to-morrow,  your  president 


70         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

could  not  fill  an  empty  treasury,"  I  retorted. 
"  The  country  is  principally  poor  on  account 
of  the  want  of  knowledge  amongst  the  people. 
Why,  you  are  a  couple  of  hundred  years  be- 
hind the  times  in  all  matters  of  agriculture 
and  forestry.  With  such  a  climate  as  yours 
you  could  cultivate  heaps  of  things  which  are 
practically  unknown  to  your  country-people  at 
present — and  find  a  ready  market  for  them, 
too.  What  you  lack  is  initiative  ;  and  new 
ventures  can  only  follow  in  the  wake  of  new 
knowledge." 

"  Our  bureaucracy  is  rotten — rotten  to  the 
core  !  "  continued  Young  Portugal,  shifting 
his  ground.  "  Every  man  for  himself — to  line 
his  own  pockets.  Most  men  to  be  bought,  if 
the  price  is  but  high  enough." 

"  Then  let  it  be  the  work  of  the  young  liberal 
party  to  reform  that,"  I  cried.  "  Shed  light 
upon  the  dishonest  practices,  and  fight  as  in- 
exorably as  you  please  to  put  down  peculation 
and  bribery — you  will  find  plenty  to  do — but 
do  not  imagine  that  disloyalty  to  your  king 
would  bring  that  evil  to  an  end.  The  history 
of  the  world,  both  in  the  past  and  in  the  pre- 
sent, tends  to  prove  that  republics  are  cursed 
with  greater  and  wider-reaching  corruption, 
with  more  virulent  a  plague  of  dishonest 


YOUNG   PORTUGAL  71 

officials,  than  the  average  monarchy.  I  have 
travelled  much,  and  I  assure  you,  senhor,  that 
if  you  seek  to  find  the  lowest  and  most  bare- 
faced forms  of  jobbery,  of  mercenary  self- 
interest,  subterfuge  and  falsehood,  and  the 
most  widespread  and  unblushing  systems  of 
bribery,  I  commend  you  to  a  republic." 

Young  Portugal  shrugged  his  shoulders 
expressively  ;  and  I  continued  : 

"  Yours  is  a  grand  country,  senhor ;  a 
splendid  country,  with  the  best  climate  in 
Europe,  I  think.  It  only  wants  judiciously 
exploiting  to  begin  a  fresh  age  of  productive- 
ness and  prosperity.  Now,  if  a  mere  woman 
may  advise,  I  would  say  to  all  you  young  men  : 
Rally  round  your  king,  loyally  and  enthu- 
siastically ;  strengthen  his  hands  by  your 
belief  in  him  ;  and  work — work  for  all  you 
are  worth — not  for  a  doubtfully  beneficial 
revolution,  but  for  grants  for  education,  for 
the  appointment  of  teachers  of  agriculture  all 
over  the  country  ;  for  the  improvement  of 
your  present  fruits  and  grains,  for  the  importa- 
tion of  fresh  varieties.  Educate  the  people 
in  a  little  practical  knowledge  ;  encourage  ex- 
periments— don't  be  afraid  of  new  things  and 
new  ways.  Educate  the  people  and  purge 
your  officialdom  !  It  may  not  make  so  good 


72         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

a  party  cry,  it  may  not  stir  your  blood  in  the 
same  way,  but  it  would  be  the  truer  patriotism, 
believe  me.  Work,  work  for  what  you  now 
pray  you  may  be  granted — 

'  A  liberal  constitution  I '  " 

Is  the  monarchical  ideal  fading  from  the 
world's  mind  ?  Have  we  indeed  progressed  so  far 
from  the  tradition  of  chivalry  and  the  "  divinity 
which  doth  hedge  a  king,"  that  those  gracious 
attributes  of  leisure,  culture,  refinement,  and 
disinterestedness,  with  which  that  tradition 
at  its  highest  was  associated,  are  no  longer 
valued  in  the  scheme  of  the  nation's  welfare  ? 
Have  we  reached  so  dead  a  level  of  utilitarian- 
ism that  we  desire  but  a  General  Manager  of 
each  country's  affairs,  and  are  conscious  no 
longer  of  the  subtle  ethical  needs  of  the  nation's 
soul — the  advantages  of  a  fixed  high  standard 
of  social  living,  and  the  concentrating  of  all 
that  is  hopeful,  noble,  and  inspiring  around 
the  person  of  one  hereditary  Head  ?  If,  in- 
deed, it  is  so,  then  the  world  is  growing  greyer. 


CHAPTER    VIII 

SUMMER  TIME 

How  short  the  actual  winter  is  in  these  southern 
lands  !  I  trust  I  am  not  ungrateful  for  Nature's 
favours,  but  these  springs  seem  almost  to 
resemble  a  too-facile  woman  :  her  self-revela- 
tion is  so  sudden,  so  complete  that,  while 
welcoming  her  favours,  one  misses  those  deli- 
cate, shy,  half-reluctant  intimations  of  coming 
surrender  which  are  so  subtly  conveyed  in  a 
northern  spring,  and  for  which  actual  beauty 
seems  scarcely  necessary.  Indeed  I  have 
experienced  the  keenest  stirring  of  spring  in 
my  blood  in  some  London  street :  in  a  warmer 
gleam  of  sunlight  upon  a  muddy  pavement,  in 
a  glimpse  of  a  clump  of  bursting  lilac  buds  in 
some  quiet  square,  or  a  breath  of  south-west 
wind  at  night  after  rain. 

But  here — while  in  the  more  sheltered  corners 
of  our  valley  the  oak  and  willow  leaves  still 
linger,  beautiful  in  their  russet  splendour,  and 

73 


74         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

the  bright  purple  spikes  of  the  bell-heather 
are  still  to  be  found  here  and  there  amongst 
the  brown  bracken,  and  we  seem  scarcely  to 
have  said  farewell  to  the  glory  of  the  autumn, 
lo !  in  every  hedge  the  buds  are  bursting 
into  fresh  green  sprays  ;  white  heath,  sweet 
violets,  "  lords  and  ladies,"  daisies,  dandelions, 
and  cow-parsley  are  springing  up  everywhere, 
and  the  fields  are  carpeted  with  bright  little 
wild  marigolds.  The  sun  seems  to  gain  in 
power  each  day,  and  the  birds,  with  infinite 
chattering,  are  preparing  for  their  vernal 
festival. 

Then  numberless  flowers  spring  into  being  ; 
the  fresh  fern  fronds  uncurl,  new  tender  green 
clothes  the  trees  ;  a  week  of  gentle,  warm  rain, 
and,  behold,  the  summer  is  here  ! 

Autumn  is  mellow,  maturely  lovely,  with 
long,  clear,  still  days  of  blue  and  gold ;  the 
winter  is  no  worse  than  an  English  autumn, 
with  bluer  skies  and  brighter  sunshine  than 
a  northern  September,  broken  by  times  of  tem- 
pestuous rain  ;  but  of  all  the  recurring  seasons 
here,  I  think  I  love  the  early  summer  the  best. 
In  its  young,  fresh,  generous  beauty,  with  sap 
and  grass  still  undried  and  unscorched  by  the 
fiercer  sun  of  midsummer,  it  is  full  of  an  un- 
speakable poetry  and  tenderness.  Our  woods 


SUMMER   TIME  75 

become  enchanted  places.  Overhead,  mingling 
with  the  stately  pines,  fresh  green  branches 
wave  gently  in  the  soft  warm  breeze  ;  a  thou- 
sand subtle  fragrances  of  sweet  and  natural 
things  perfume  the  translucent  air  ;  beneath, 
one's  feet  tread  upon  a  carpet  of  moss,  new 
grass,  and  humble  little  flowers  and  ferns  flecked 
with  the  sunlight ;  in  the  hedges,  a  tangle  of 
honeysuckle,  wild  roses,  and  blackberry 
blossom  ;  above,  blue,  blue  sky,  seen  between 
the  dreamily  waving  branches  of  the  nut  trees 
and  the  oaks  ;  while  myriads  of  tiny  winged 
insects  flash  out  a  brief,  joyous  existence  in 
the  sunbeams,  and  the  clear-throated  robins, 
chaffinches,  thrushes,  and  blackbirds — more 
eloquent  than  man — warble  their  hymn  of 
praise  in  the  bushes. 

At  such  a  season  how  can  one  work  !  How 
can  one  do  aught  but  lie,  blissfully  entranced, 
at  the  foot  of  some  tall  pine  or  evergreen  oak  ; 
contented  merely  to  be,  in  such  weather,  in  such 
a  Paradise  !  Are  not  these  moments  Life  in 
its  most  perfect  sense  ?  And  is  not  this  very 
absorption  into  Nature's  beauteous  heart  part 
of  the  growth  of  the  soul  ? 

Thus,  this  morning,  I  lay  among  the  young 
fern  fronds  and  tall  grasses  in  the  shade  of 
the  low  branches  of  an  old  cork-oak,  with 


76         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

Horace's  Odes  for  company,  lazily  conscious 
of  all  the  beauty  around  me — of  the  dance  of 
the  gnats,  the  dreamy  fluttering  of  the  new 
leaves,  the  scent  of  the  freshly  cut  grass  in  an 
adjacent  meadow,  and  the  high-pitched  voices 
of  the  washerwomen  at  the  stream  below, 
singing  some  interminable  plaintive  folk-song. 
Presently,  Horace  slipped  unheeded  from  my 
fingers,  and  gradually,  very  gradually,  the 
tranquillity,  the  warmth,  and  a  pleasant  sense 
of  well-being  lulled  me  off  into  a  delicious 
sleep. 

"  The  senhora — is  she  dead  ?  " 

These  words,  uttered  in  hesitating,  won- 
dering tones,  unlocked  my  eyes  and  brought 
me  up  on  my  elbow  in  a  sudden  scare.  At  a 
respectful  distance,  amongst  all  the  sun-flecked 
greenery,  stood  a  peasant,  leaning  upon  his 
scythe  and  viewing  me  in  obvious  perplexity. 
One  of  those  working-bees — &  woman — lying 
prone,  with  closed  eyes,  under  a  tree  in  the 
morning !  He  had  probably  never  before 
seen  so  strange  a  sight.  She  certainly  must 
be  either  very  ill  or  dead. 

I  frowned  up  at  him,  puzzled  and  half- 
awake  ;  then,  sitting  up  and  snatching  at  my 
hat, 


SUMMER   TIME  77 

"  No,  no,  thank  you  ! — Thank  you  very 
much  !  "  I  stammered  out.  It  was  all  my 
Portuguese  was  equal  to  in  my  confusion  ; 
but  it  was  sufficient  to  convince  him  that  I 
was  only  one  of  those  queer  English  folk,  and 
that  I  was  not  in  need  of  his  aid  ;  and  he  dis- 
creetly went  his  way  through  the  wood. 

But  the  spell  was  broken.  A  teasing  con- 
science-microbe stirred,  and  a  "  proper  sense 
of  duty  "  responded.  I  rose  and,  tucking  my 
Horace  under  my  arm,  started  forthwith  home- 
wards to  prepare  my  neglected  Philosopher's 
lunch. 

However,  I  was  tempted  to  linger  on  my 
way,  for,  beneath  the  pines,  an  old,  ragged 
wisp  of  a  woman  was  stooping  about,  collecting 
the  big  brown  cones  into  a  sack,  and,  following 
her  upward  gaze,  I  saw  a  small  girl  scaling  one 
of  the  tall  bare  trunks  with  monkey-like 
agility.  There  was  no  foothold ;  there  were 
no  branches  to  aid  her  progress,  for  all  the  lower 
branches  of  the  pines  are  invariably  lopped  for 
fuel.  She  was  hugging  the  trunk  round  with 
both  her  arms  and  legs,  and  jerking  herself 
upwards,  higher  and  higher,  by  a  curious 
agile  movement  of  her  thin  little  body.  She 
appeared  quite  at  home  and  self-possessed  at 
her  simian  task  ;  and  when,  while  I  held  my 


78          A  SHADOWED    PARADISE 

breath  in  terror  for  her  safety,  she  reached  a 
branch — some  sixty  or  seventy  feet  in  the  air — 
she  shook  and  beat  it  to  bring  down  the  cones 
to  fill  her  grandmother's  waiting  sack,  then 
climbed  still  higher  to  another  branch.  And 
for  these  same  pine-cones,  which  make  fragrant 
resinous  fuel  for  our  little  stove  in  winter,  we 
pay  the  old  woman  forty  reis — twopence  a 
hundred  ! 

When  the  heat  of  July  and  August  comes, 
we  close  the  thick  wooden  shutters  of  our  sunny 
windows,  and  leave  wide  open  the  shady  cool 
window  facing  north,  which  is  at  this  season 
a  most  precious  possession.  We  really  suffer 
but  little  discomfort  from  the  hot  weather 
here,  whatever  the  folks  inland  and  in  the 
big  town  may  do  ;  for,  however  oppressive 
the  day  may  threaten  to  be,  about  ten  o'clock 
each  morning  a  deliciously  cool  north-west  wind 
uprises,  coming  to  us  over  endless  stretches 
of  the  blue  Atlantic,  freshening  us  and  making 
existence  quite  tolerable  in  our  carefully  shaded 
rooms. 

We  "  study  to  be  quiet  "  during  the  hottest 
part  of  the  day  ;  and  the  clear,  tender,  early 
morning  hours  and  dewy,  fragrant  evenings 
are  compensation  enough.  Moreover,  we  have 


SUMMER   TIME  79 

certainly  found  that  a  non-meat  diet  tends  to 
keep  the  blood  cool  and  pure  ;  rendering  one 
able  to  endure  the  heat  with  a  far  less  amount 
of  discomfort  and  ill-effect  than  carnivorous 
people  seem  to  experience. 

How  novel  and  beautiful  it  would  be  to  be 
rich  !  Really  rich,  with  sufficient  money  not 
merely  to  live  out  the  remainder  of  our  span 
of  life  on  this  earth  in  simple  comfort  and 
dignity,  but  to  possess  that  pleasant  margin 
which  gives  one  the  power  to  be  generous  to 
others,  to  express  in  material  form  those  warm 
impulses  to  aid  and  to  give  joy  which  are  so 
checked  and  stifled  by  the  lack  of  means  to 
consummate  the  natural  desire. 

Ascetics  may  say  what  they  please — it  is 
a  bad  thing  to  be  poor  ;  and  the  virtues  that 
one  is  supposed  to  acquire  through  the  cold 
pinch  of  poverty  would  be  at  least  equally 
developed  in  the  same  temperament  by  a 
moderate  share  of  the  sunshine  of  prosperity. 
Selfish  and  unamiable  rich  people  would  be 
selfish  and  unamiable  poor  ones  ;  a  tender 
heart  would  not  be  rendered  hard  by  the  power 
and  practice  of  benevolence. 

The  limitations  of  poverty  !  How  much 
one  misses  through  the  hampering  inability 


80         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

to  give  proof  of  one's  kindly  feelings  !  How 
many  friendships  can  never  reach  fruition, 
and  how  subtly  misunderstanding  and  estrange- 
ment can  creep  in — because  one  chances  to 
be  poor  ! 

It  may  be  due  to  my  Irish  blood  that  to  me 
it  has  ever  been  the  keenest  delight  to  give. 
It  certainly  can  never  be  accounted  to  me  for 
a  virtue,  for  the  impulse  is  so  absolute  and 
inherent  that  to  act  differently — to  count  the 
cost  and  prefer  to  keep  things  for  myself — is 
honestly  the  effort,  not  the  first  desire.  One 
of  my  earliest  theological  difficulties  arose 
from  this  very  trait. 

"  But  which  pleases  God  the  better,"  I  de- 
manded of  my  then  earthly  Providence,  one 
night  at  hair-plaiting  time,  "  if  we  do  good  to 
others  because  we  enjoy  doing  it,  or  because 
He  tells  us  to  ?  " 

I  don't  remember  what  the  answer  was,  but 
I  know  that  it  was  unsatisfying,  and  that  I 
cried  quiet,  miserable  tears  during  the  re- 
mainder of  the  hair  tweaking ;  for  I  was 
yearning  with  all  the  earnestness  of  which  my 
child  soul  was  capable  to  please  a  "  jealous 
God,"  and  I  felt  that  I  could  not  render  Him 
the  necessary  sacrifice  of  painful  self-abnega- 
tion, because  it  was  only  after  all  a  natural 


SUMMER   TIME  81 

pleasure  to  me  to  give  and  to  be  spent  for 
others. 

Even  here  and  now,  I  am  happy  in  having 
a  protege. 

When  we  first  came  here  I  used  to  be  daily 
distressed,  in  passing  the  outbuildings  where 
our  peasants  herd,  by  the  sound  of  a  plaintive 
monotonous  wail,  "  Ehu,  Jesu  !  Jesu,  Ehu  !  " 
repeated  over  and  over  again,  beginning  as 
soon  as  I  came  into  view,  and  continuing  until 
I  was  long  out  of  sight.  I  used  to  glance  in 
as  I  passed  the  dark  open  door,  from  which 
the  cries  proceeded,  but  the  sunlight  was  so 
vivid  without,  and  it  was  such  a  black,  window- 
less  hole,  that  I  could  discern  nothing  within  ; 
and  I  began  to  find  the  moans  slightly  irritating, 
from  the  fact  that  they  appeared  to  be  uttered 
solely  to  impress  me  ;  for  I  found  that  when  I 
was  not  supposed  to  be  within  ear-range,  there 
was  silence,  or  sometimes  a  quite  cheerful  voice, 
and  even  an  occasional  cracked  laugh  issued 
from  that  dark  interior. 

But  then,  I  realised  that,  after  all,  it  was  very 
natural.  The  poor  inmate,  whoever  she  was, 
had  no  other  way  of  attracting  my  attention  ; 
and  in  the  living  death  which  she  must  be  en- 
during in  that  cheerless  den,  a  chance  of  outside 
help  or  interest  was  to  be  sought  by  any  means. 

6 


82         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

I  consulted  The  Philosopher,  who  made  in- 
quiries for  me,  and  found  that  it  was  Miguel's 
old  mother,  paralysed  and  bed-ridden,  who 
occupied  the  room. 

"  You  had  better  not  go  in,"  he  advised. 
"  It  will  only  upset  you.  And  you  can  do 
nothing." 

That  was  what  worried  me  :  I  could  do 
nothing.  If  only  I  had  some  little  delicacies 
to  take  her,  or  a  warm  blanket  for  her  poor 
withered  limbs,  I  would  so  gladly  have  run 
the  risk  of  being  "  upset."  But  to  go  empty- 
handed  !  Yet  those  cries  must  have  some 
response.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  puzzled  over 
it  for  days,  and  then  bethought  me  of  our  one 
luxury — our  tea. 

So  that  afternoon  I  took  down  a  big  cup  of 
hot,  well-sugared  tea — real  "  English  "  tea — 
and  so  made  acquaintance  with  the  poor, 
yellow,  wizened  creature,  lying  huddled  under 
a  cotton  covering,  on  a  sort  of  broad  wooden 
shelf,  in  a  dim,  dirty  room,  made  cold  and  un- 
wholesome by  the  damp,  and  of  which  the 
sole  furniture  was  a  rickety  old  deal  table 
propped  beside  her.  She  was  paralysed  all 
down  one  side  and  quite  helpless,  and  my  first 
efforts  to  raise  her  to  take  the  tea  were  not 
very  successful,  but  deftness  came  with 


SUMMER   TIME  83 

practice  ;  and  though  my  slender  knowledge  of 
the  language  and  her  toothless  speech  make  any 
converse  between  us  difficult,  we  understood 
each  other  from  the  first,  through  a  language 
which  is  of  all  countries  and  all  time — her 
helplessness  and  my  pity  for  her. 

Now,  every  afternoon,  when  I  pour  out  our 
tea,  I  take  a  cup  to  "  the  old  senhora,"  and 
each  time  she  greets  my  entrance  with  the 
same  remark  :  "  A  senhora  nao  se  esquece  !  " — 
the  senhora  never  forgets.  And  she  stretches 
out  her  one  poor  skinny  arm  to  seize  my  hand 
and  draw  it  to  her  lips.  Then  she  tells  me 
the  day's  woes,  in  words  the  meaning  of  which 
I  can  only  guess,  of  her  daughter-in-law's 
neglect,  of  the  lamentable  thinness  of  the  cab- 
bage soup  they  bring  her,  of  the  throes  of 
rheumatism  which  rack  her  old  bones,  and  I 
reply,  "  Yes,  yes  ;  pobre,  pobre  I  " — poor,  poor 
one — and  give  her  some  sympathetic  little  pats, 
and  bid  her  farewell  until  next  day. 

Whether  she  really  enjoys  the  strange  foreign 
beverage  I  bring  her,  or  whether  her  gratitude 
is  only  another  instance  of  the  charming 
manners  of  this  people,  I  do  not  know  ;  at 
any  rate,  she  likes  the  thin  slices  of  white  bread 
which  accompany  it,  and  which,  dipped  in  the 
tea,  slip  easily  between  her  toothless  gums. 


84         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

But  lonely  and  neglected  though  she  may 
be  through  three  hundred  and  sixty-four 
long  days  of  the  year,  the  old  senhora  has 
her  one  day  of  consequence  and  honour, 
when  the  priest  comes  to  hear  her  confession, 
and  to  administer  The  Host  to  her  in  her 
dark  room. 

One  bright  spring  morning  I  was  awakened 
by  the  approaching  sound  of  many  voices 
joining  in  some  solemn  choral  or  chant.  Nearer 
and  nearer  the  voices  came,  until  they  paused 
beneath  my  window,  and  peering  very  cau- 
tiously out,  I  beheld  the  priest  entering  the 
farm,  clad  in  his  vestments,  and  bearing  the 
Holy  Office,  followed  by  candle-bearers  and 
a  small  crowd  of  peasant  girls  and  boys  carry- 
ing flowers  and  sprays  of  fennel. 

Later,  I  found  the  courtyard  strewn  with 
trampled  roses  and  the  feathery  branches  of 
the  bitter  herb  ;  and  the  old  senhora 's  door 
was  closed  throughout  the  day,  that  nothing 
might  disturb  her  pious  meditations. 

Whether  she  was  cheered  or  not  by  the  great 
ceremony  I  could  not  discover,  but  she  was 
certainly  filled  with  a  gratified  sense  of  im- 
portance ;  and  that  afternoon  she  tried  to 
tell  me  a  great  deal  regarding  purgatory,  but 
unfortunately  I  could  not  understand  much, 


SUMMER    TIME  85 

and  the  little  I  did  I  could  not  agree  with  ; 
deeming,  indeed,  that  the  poor  soul  was  en- 
during her  share  of  that  state  here  and  now, 
and  that  the  light  and  joy  of  heaven  itself 
might  well  come  next — for  her,  at  least. 


CHAPTER    IX 

BIRTHDAY   EGOTISMS 

July  18. 

I  AM  reminiscent  to-night,  and  with  right  and 
proper  cause,  since  it  is  my  birthday.  What 
mortal  is  there  who,  however  prosaic  he  may 
pride  himself  he  has  become  in  the  course  of 
long,  soul-destroying  years,  does  not  experience 
a  faint,  secret  sentiment,  a  certain  wistful 
glance  backwards,  on  that  anniversary  ?  I 
frankly  own  that  the  recurring  day  is  like  no 
other  to  me  ;  I  revel  in  its  mingled  memories 
of  sweet  and  bitter  things  ;  I  range  from  child- 
hood's days  down  through  years  of  happiness 
and  effort  and  storm  and  stress  to  the  peaceful 
present ;  and,  looking  ahead,  I  speculate  which 
day  of  all  the  year  will  prove  itself  to  be  that 
other  pre-determined  anniversary  which  is 
now  drawing  nearer  and  more  near. 

Whenever  I  pass  through  a  certain  portion 
of  south-west  London — a  region  lying  between 
the  King's  Road,  Chelsea,  and  Hyde  Park — 

86 


BIRTHDAY    EGOTISMS  87 

Time  exists  not  for  me :  I  tread  amongst  the 
unreal,  and  a  strange  metamorphosis  takes 
place.  The  huge  blocks  of  luxurious  flats  and 
the  streets  of  stately  mansions  fade  unsub- 
stantially away,  and  I  see  again  the  small, 
unpretentious  houses,  with  the  open  spaces 
between  of  fields  and  market-gardens,  which 
gave  a  half-rural  appearance  to  that  pleasant 
suburb  a  generation  ago.  The  air  seems 
clearer,  fresher ;  lilacs,  laburnums,  and  roses 
flourish  in  the  old-fashioned  gardens  ;  and  a 
slow  horse-'bus,  with  a  carpet  of  clean,  rustling 
straw  and  a  door,  starts  from  the  "  Queen's 
Elm,"  and  rumbles  along  the  Fulham  Road, 
to  take  us  "  into  town."  Where  now  great 
houses  form  some  misnamed  "  Gardens,"  a 
long,  low  factory  extends,  fronted  by  a  wide 
stretch  of  waste  land,  in  which  are  high  sand- 
hillocks,  huge  logs  of  wood,  and  boulders  of 
stone,  and  a  disused  well  half  hidden  amongst 
the  long  rank  grass.  A  wild  place,  which 
was  the  delight  of  our  child  hearts  ;  where 
many  an  adventure  culled  from  the  pages  of 
Fenimore  Cooper  and  Marryat  was  played 
out,  in  summer  sun  and  winter  snow,  on  dark 
nights  lightened  by  evil-smelling  toy  bull's-eye 
lanterns,  or  on  bright  June  mornings  before 
the  sluggard  world  was  astir. 


88         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

On  one  such  morning  our  mother  was 
aroused  by  an  insistent  knocking,  and  hastily 
putting  her  head  out  of  the  window  she  met 
the  upward  gaze  of  the  night  policeman,  not 
yet  off  duty. 

"  Beg  pardon  for  disturbing  you,  mum ; 
but  do  you  know  where  your  children  are  ?  " 

"  Good  gracious,  man  !  "  cried  our  mother, 
"  why,  in  their  beds,  of  course  !  " 

"  Well,  you  go  and  see,  mum,  that's  all  / 
say,"  stolidly  responded  the  scandalised  guar- 
dian of  law  and  order. 

Our  mother  rushed  upstairs  in  alarm,  to  find 
a  row  of  small  white  beds — empty  ;  and,  hastily 
arousing  the  nurse,  she  began  a  frightened 
search.  No  trace  of  us  in  the  house  ;  no  sign 
of  us  in  either  garden  ;  but,  round  a  corner, 
hung  on  a  spreading  lilac  bush,  four  little  white 
nightgowns  fluttered  in  the  summer  breeze, 
and  four  happy  small  pink  savages  on  the  war- 
path in  search  of  scalps  were  tearing  about  in 
the  high  grass  of  the  adjoining  field,  flourishing 
long  spears  of  lilac  shoots  and  whooping 
joyously. 

I  wonder  whether  any  people  in  the  big 
houses  which  have  arisen  above  that  wild 
hunting-ground  are  ever  half  so  careless  and 
happy  as  were  those  little  savages  of  long  ago. 


BIRTHDAY   EGOTISMS  89 

It  was  there  that,  one  winter,  being  bored 
by  the  society  of  dull  elders  indoors,  we  started 
to  build  ourselves  a  house  where  only  bright- 
ness and  make-believe  should  have  residence. 
We  dug  painfully  in  the  frost-bound  earth  to 
make  sure  foundations  for  the  doorway  ;  but, 
alas  !  our  heavy  wooden  door- jambs  would 
weakly  decline  from  the  perpendicular,  in 
spite  of  all  our  stamping  and  hammering  of 
the  soil  around  them ;  so  we  waived  the  pre- 
sent necessity  of  building  walls,  and  hurried 
off  to  spend  our  combined  stock  of  pocket- 
money  upon  paper  and  paints  to  adorn  them 
with — when  raised  ! 

I  have  memories  of  long  days  spent  in  the 
old  Museum,  amongst  the  pictures,  where, 
at  the  age  of  ten,  I  aspired  to  copy  Cassandra 
Prophesying  the  Fall  of  Troy — a  large  canvas 
with  at  least  a  hundred  figures  ;  of  blissful 
fireside  hours,  when  I  learnt  to  worship  Shake- 
speare and  love  Dickens,  and  to  roam  with 
Cooper  and  Marryat  and  Scott  through  hair- 
breadth adventures  in  enchanted  lands  ;  of 
dreamy  summer  hours,  swinging  with  some 
book  of  poems  in  the  boughs  of  a  gigantic 
laburnum  tree,  with  above  and  around  me  a 
bower  of  sunshine  formed  of  the  drooping 


90         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

golden  blossoms,  and  the  blue  sky  glimpsed 
between. 

Such  was  my  education — to  run  wild,  with 
pictures  and  books  and  a  garden.  There  are 
many  worse  systems,  if  the  growth  of  a  child's 
soul  in  its  natural  individuality  is  desired  ; 
but  if  not,  then  the  method  should  be  shunned, 
and  the  child  sent  to  one  of  those  framing  in- 
stitutions, where  the  mould  is  identical  for  all, 
where  any  individuality  is  discouraged,  and 
perfectly  correct  specimens  are  turned  out, 
finished  into  a  colourless  perfection,  and  fitted 
in  every  way  to  contribute  their  quantum  to 
the  dullness  and  monotony  of  ordinary  middle- 
class  existence. 

As  for  me,  I  think  I  have  my  manner  of  edu- 
cation to  thank  that  there  are  two  tyrants  of 
to-day  from  whom  I  have  ever  prayed  to  be 
delivered — Cant  and  Convention.  The  first 
draws  a  veil  of  mystery  over  Things  as  They 
Really  Are,  confusing  their  outlines,  making 
the  Essential  of  no  account,  and  glorifying  the 
Superficial ;  exalting  words  over  spirit.  The 
second  binds  us  hand  and  foot,  that  we  may 
not  tear  aside  the  lying  folds  in  our  search  for 
Truth.  And  few  of  us  dare  to  protest ;  be- 
cause to  be  original,  to  act  otherwise  than  one's 
fellow-mortals,  and  to  do  what  has  not  received 


BIRTHDAY    EGOTISMS  91 

the  sacred  cachet  of  Custom,  is  to  commit  a 
social  crime. 

I  am  a  whole  twelve  years  old.  I  am  alone 
in  the  garden  in  the  soft  summer  darkness. 
Over  the  roofs  of  the  farther  houses  a  dull  glare 
in  the  sky  shows  in  what  direction  the  great 
city  lies.  I  am  still  in  a  world  of  make-believe. 
In  my  white  birthday  frock  with  its  blue  sash 
I  am  Valentine  in  Monte  Cristo  ;  on  the  other 
side  of  the  thick  lilac-hedge  waits  Morel,  my 
most  worshipful  lover ;  I  know  that  if  I  were 
to  thrust  my  hand  through  one  of  the  gaps  of 
greenery  it  would  be  seized  and  imprisoned 
in  his  own.  My  heart  flutters  unevenly 
with  the  exquisite  consciousness  of  his  pre- 
sence ;  the  warm  wind  cannot  cool  my  flushed 
cheeks. 

Suddenly,  across  the  roofs,  the  hush  is 
broken  by  a  solemn,  slow  voice  of  intensest 
melancholy.  Big  Ben,  from  his  lofty  watch- 
tower,  strikes  the  hour,  and  in  his  deep,  ma- 
jestic notes  is  voiced  all  the  poetry,  aye,  and 
the  misery,  the  sin,  and  the  madness  of  the 
city's  inmost  heart.  My  make-believe  falls 
from  me,  and  I  stand  lonely,  a  shivering  child 
in  the  darkness.  Around  me,  borne  on  the 
vibrations  of  the  bell,  hover  mighty  unknown 


92         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

forces  which  are  bringing  to  me  the  strange 
coming  mysteries  of  Life,  of  Birth,  and  Death. 
The  Spirit  of  My  Future  rustles  his  wings,  and 
I  cross  my  hands  on  my  childish  bosom  and 
strain  my  eyes  in  an  endeavour  to  peer  into 
the  Unseen. 

But  it  is  not  wholly  with  fearful  apprehen- 
sion that  I  quiver ;  for  some  secret  pulse  throbs 
with  a  prescience  of  future  high  adventure, 
and  the  soldier-blood  of  my  father's  people 
is  stirred  within  me  in  a  resolve  to  face  and 
to  conquer  Fate.  The  darkness  becomes  holy, 
each  quick-drawn  breath  a  prayer  ;  and  when 
the  last  whispering  echo  of  the  final  "  boom  " 
has  died  away,  I  turn  my  gaze  to  the  stars 
and  brave  my  Destiny,  bring  it  what  it  may. 

Unchildlike,  you  say  ?  Ah,  how  few  "  grown- 
ups "  realise  the  "  long,  long  thoughts  "  of  a 
child,  and  the  vague  memories  and  foreshadow- 
ings  which  cluster  round  that  little  soul  as  it 
stands  hesitating  upon  the  threshold  of  its  new 
existence ! 

From  these  mists  of  childish  recollections 
there  stands  out  clearly  one  small,  gracious 
figure,  the  guardian  angel  of  my  later  girlhood. 
A  little  old  lady,  dressed  always  in  black  silk, 
with  smooth  pink  cheeks,  brown  side-curls  un- 


BIRTHDAY    EGOTISMS  93 

touched  with  grey  framed  in  a  black  lace  cap, 
and  with  the  clear,  gentle  voice  and  the  sprightly 
walk  of  a  young  woman.  The  years  had  not 
petrified  her  ;  she  possessed  a  fund  of  quiet  fun, 
and  a  love  of  all  things  beautiful  and  seemly. 
She  rarely  talked  Religion,  but  to  be  with  her 
was  to  dwell  in  an  atmosphere  of  goodness  and 
right  thinking.  Her  heart  was  tender  to  all 
living  things,  and  her  life  was  spent  in  doing 
unobtrusive  kindnesses.  Her  judgments  were 
unprejudiced  and  generous,  but  there  was  in 
her  just  a  morally  bracing  touch  of  austerity 
akin  to  the  first  tinge  of  frost  in  the  air 
on  some  perfect  autumn  morning.  Unselfish, 
unruffled,  gentle,  altruistic,  if  she  had  brought 
on  any  faults  to  old  age  my  keenly  critical 
child-eyes  never  discovered  them. 

It  was  her  lot  to  spend  her  whole  life  in  a 
little,  sleepy  provincial  town.  When  others  ad- 
ventured abroad  it  had  always  been  her  part  to 
remain  at  home  to  preserve  that  gracious  order 
which  seemed  to  follow  from  her  mere  presence 
in  the  house.  So  sleepy  a  town  was  it,  and  so 
stodgy  grew  the  brains  of  its  inhabitants  from 
lack  of  outside  interests,  that  it  was  no  unusual 
thing  for  people  to  become,  "  Not  mad,  my 
dear,  but — just  a  little  queer,  you  know." 
One  good  lady  grew  so  bored  by  her  life  of 


94         A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

monotonous  comfort  and  the  unrelieved  society 
of  her  meek  little  husband  that  she  one  day 
took  to  her  bed,  and  firmly  and  resolutely  de- 
clined to  get  up  again.  And  although  in  perfect 
health,  there  she  remained  for  many  years 
until  One  whose  summons  would  not  be  denied 
shifted  her  to  a  resting-place  in  the  church- 
yard. 

But  no  such  mental  atrophy  overtook  my 
dear  one.  Though,  in  her  narrow  sphere,  in- 
tellectual stimulus  was  difficult  to  find,  she 
found  it — in  Egyptology  !  Every  book  that 
she  could  procure  on  the  subject  was  perused 
with  eager  delight.  Egypt's  wondrous  past — 
the  history,  the  hieroglyphics,  the  excavations, 
the  discoveries — were  all  of  absorbing  interest 
to  her ;  she  realised  and  visualised  it  all,  and 
had  no  mean  knowledge  of  the  vast  subject, 
though  I  doubt  whether  she  had  ever  seen  so 
much  as  a  worthy  picture  of  the  country — cer- 
tainly never  any  of  the  treasure-trove  of  col- 
lectors or  of  the  museums. 

And  secretly,  too,  she  wrote  :  hymns  and 
sweet,  calmly  reasoning  little  religious  essays 
on  dainty  sheets  of  lady's  note-paper.  No  one 
ever  saw  them  during  her  lifetime,  but  I 
treasure  them  now,  when  the  note-paper  is 
yellow  with  time  and  the  ink  is  fading  away. 


BIRTHDAY   EGOTISMS  95 

To  me  they  are  sacred  reflections  of  a  pure 
and  perfect  personality,  of  a  life  as  delicately 
fragrant  and  as  unobtrusive  as  the  faint  scent 
of  lavender  and  rose-leaves  which  lingers  still 
about  the  pages. 

Life's  landmarks  !  The  things  that  count — 
the  episodes  that  mould  the  soul,  that  make 
us  different.  How  strange  and  erratic  they 
are,  and  how  little  are  they  the  obvious,  to-be- 
expected  influences  of  our  daily  existence  ! 

Looking  back,  I  believe  the  thing  which  has 
had  the  most  far-reaching  results  in  my  life 
was  the  sight  of  an  unknown  woman's  face. 
I  glimpsed  it  one  dull  winter's  day  in  the 
crowded  Strand.  My  omnibus  drew  up  against 
the  curb,  and  the  woman,  passing  by,  paused 
on  the  muddy  pavement  and  turned  her  face 
towards  me.  Such  a  face  !  A  yellow,  fixed 
mask  of  absolute  despair  :  apathetic,  dead, 
save  for  the  suffering  concentrated  in  the 
sunken,  lustreless  eyes.  Her  shoulders  were 
relaxed  listlessly  forward,  and  her  clothes 
hung  upon  her  with  that  indescribably  forlorn 
air  which  garments  take  when  they  are  uncon- 
sidered  and  uncared  for.  Though  I  was  un- 
known to  her,  I  recognised  her  as  one  of 
a  pioneer  band  of  thinkers  and  reformers  of 


96         A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  day,  and  from  afar  I  had  admired  and 
watched  her  noble  public  life. 

She  turned  now  and  looked  at  me,  and 
strangely,  but  surely — surely — from  the  depths 
of  those  colourless  eyes  there  leapt  a  sudden 
appealing  flash  :  the  voiceless  cry  for  help 
of  some  creature  tortured  beyond  endurance. 
It  momentarily  stirred  the  calm  of  that  terrible 
mask  as  she  inclined  towards  me.. 

But  I,  shy,  incredulous,  hesitated.  I  was 
obscure  and  unknown  ;  had  I  been  but  her 
intellectual  equal,  with  what  gracious  warmth 
I  would  instantly  have  responded  to  that 
silent  appeal.  So — I  hesitated — and  the  instant 
passed.  My  'bus  moved  on,  and  she  turned 
to  pursue  her  way. 

I  saw  her  once,  twice,  thrice  afterwards,  that 
winter ;  but  never  again  did  the  mask  lift. 
Then,  one  day,  London  was  startled  by  the 
tragedy  of  her  self-sought  death,  and  I  ex- 
perienced the  bitterest  remorse  I  have  ever 
known.  That  one  moment  of  appeal — if  I  had 
but  responded ;  if  I  had  but  put  out  my  hand, 
and  said,  "  You  are  suffering.  I'm  sorry ;  I 
care.  Oh,  share  it  with  me  !  "  who  knows 
but  that  just  the  love  and  sympathy  of  a  sister- 
woman  might  have  broken  up  the  ice  of  despair 
and  saved  her  life.  For  she  was  so  solitary  in 


BIRTHDAY   EGOTISMS  97 

her  trouble — I  learnt  long  afterwards  that  she 
wrote  entreating  a  friend  in  the  country  to 
come  to  her,  but  some  cause  made  that  im- 
possible, and  she  went  down  to  death  alone. 
It  all  happened  years  ago,  but  it  made  an 
ineffaceable  impression  upon  me,  and  never 
have  I  forgiven  myself  for  that  moment  of 
unworthy  irresolution,  when  I  missed  my 
chance  to  help  another  human  soul.  Since 
then  I  hope  I  have  not  so  erred,  at  whatever 
cost  to  myself.  That  neglected  opportunity 
has  avenged  itself  many  times  over  ;  it  has 
borne  its  part  in  the  shaping  of  my  life. 

Once,  years  ago,  it  was  my  lot  to  make  a 
great  renunciation.  The  details  would  be  of 
no  interest  to  the  world  ;  it  is  sufficient  that 
to  me  there  seemed  no  other  course  possible. 
All  that  had  previously  made  up  the  sum  of 
my  existence  had  to  be  relinquished,  if  I  was 
still  to  walk  with  my  forehead  to  the  sky.  I 
was  forced  to  choose — I  chose  ;  and  if  that 
bitter  crux  were  again  before  me,  my  choice 
would  have  to  be  the  same.  But  it  is  no  light 
thing  for  a  woman  to  put  herself  wrong  with 
her  world — to  go  out  into  the  wilderness — 
however  pure  her  motives,  however  inevitable 
her  action  may  be.  The  familiar  trappings 

7 


98         A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

of  Life  are  rudely  torn  away,  and  things  and 
people  assume  unwonted  aspects.  It  occa- 
sions a  crucial  sifting  of  the  gold  from  the  dross, 
the  superficial  from  the  real,  in  herself  and  in 
others  ;  and  there  follow  some  strange  sur- 
prises. For  myself,  I  found  that  my  most 
merciless  critics — those  whose  censure  was 
severest  and  whose  charity  was  of  the  scantiest 
— were  those  who  could  not  bring  themselves 
to  forgive  past  benefits,  and  those  who  by 
right  of  their  own  lives  were  the  least  fitted 
to  sit  in  the  judgment  seat ;  whilst  the  good 
people  understood  with  scarcely  any  need  for 
explanation  and  none  for  justification. 

Especially  did  I  find  this  the  case  with  strong, 
noble  women.  One,  as  kind  as  she  was  dis- 
cerning, kissed  me  tenderly  and  said,  "  My 
dear,  you  were  placed  in  a  most  cruel  position, 
but — you  did  the  right  thing  !  And  the  only 
shame  that  can  ever  touch  you  will  be  if  you 
should  ever  come  to  be  ashamed  of  having 
done  it."  Through  all  the  dark  days  that 
followed,  when  the  flesh,  being  weak,  cried 
out  for  all  that  was  not  and  could  never  be 
again,  those  brave  words  were  at  once  my 
benediction  and  a  source  of  strength.  And 
Shame  and  I  never  met ;  but  Charity  and 
Faith  and  Tenderness  gathered  round  me,  and 


BIRTHDAY    EGOTISMS  99 

bore  me  in  their  arms  over  the  sharp  stones 
of  that  steep  path  of  Renunciation  into  the 
quiet  by-ways  of  Peace. 

And  that  Peace  remains,  even  now,  when 
Life  seems  leading  down  into  the  dark  Valley 
of  the  Shadow.  The  premonition  of  tragedy 
which  was  voiced  by  the  great  bell  on  that 
long-ago  birthday  indeed  fulfilled  itself  :  pain, 
loss,  followed  high  endeavour ;  when  I  willed 
good,  evil  was  present  with  me ;  and  the 
wounds  which  pierced  the  deepest  were  dealt 
by  hands  I  had  blessed.  But — I  have  found 
the  "  precious  jewel "  of  adversity,  and  in 
the  desert  one  can  hear  God's  voice  as  one 
cannot  in  the  crowd  ;  and  when  life  is  shorn 
of  the  superficial  the  real  becomes  very  clear. 

A  clock  strikes  the  midnight  hour  as  I  lean 
from  my  window  out  into  the  still  beauty  of 
the  night.  Pure,  pale  moonlight  floods  all 
the  fair  scene  ;  a  faint,  subtle  fragrance  of 
pine-needles,  of  bay,  and  of  myrtle  hovers  in 
the  warm  air.  The  waves  are  stealing  softly 
to  and  fro  upon  the  shore,  and  the  croak  of 
the  frog  colony  down  at  the  spring  is  just 
audible  in  the  distance  ;  while  from  close  at 
hand,  in  the  old  gravel  quarry  beside  the 
house,  the  silence  is  sharply  cut  by  a  silvery, 
metallic,  "  Clink  !  Clink  !  "—clear  and  sweet 


100        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

as  some  tiny  bell  or  glass  hammer — insistently 
repeated.  The  "  fairy  blacksmiths  "  are  at 
work,  and  the  night  is  the  richer  for  their 
notes. 

I  cross  my  hands  upon  my  bosom,  and 
looking  up  into  the  depths  of  the  violet  sky, 
where  the  myriads  of  stars  hang  suspended 
in  the  ether,  once  again  I  brave  my  Destiny. 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   POST    OFFICE   BABY 

I  HAVE  always  found  that  one  of  the  results 
of  life  abroad  is  an  abnormal  and  insatiable 
desire  for  letters  from  England,  and  for  all 
home  news,  even  of  the  most  frivolous  descrip- 
tion. 

Never,  when  in  London  at  the  heart  of 
things,  did  I  know  or  care  half  so  much  about 
the  affairs  of  my  nation  and  of  the  world  at 
large  as  here  and  now,  when,  as  far  as  any  of 
the  home  doings  affect  me  personally,  I  might 
be  in  another  dimension.  The  Philosopher,  as 
befits  him,  rather  scorns  my  newspaper  wor- 
ship, preferring  that  I  should  dwell  ever  upon 
the  hill- tops  with  the  serene  giants  of  old, 
than  that  I  should  be  so  feverishly  interested 
in  Lloyd  George's  fight  for  his  Budget,  or  should 
pore  over  the  review  of  the  last  new  play  or 
novel,  or  care  whether  the  King  is  at  Balmoral 
or  Marienbad.  But  alas  for  The  Philosopher's 
ideals  !  I  am  a  modern  to  my  finger-tips,  and 

101 


102      A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

I  cannot  help  being  keenly  alive  to  the  affairs 
of  the  moment,  although,  as  he  truly  says, 
all  these  things  are  mere  ripples  on  the  surface 
of  the  waters  of  Time — Vanitas,  Vanitatum  ! 

So  it  is  chiefly  for  my  pleasure  that  we  have 
The  Times  Weekly  Edition  and  T.P.'s  Weekly 
sent  to  us  through  a  London  newsagent,  and 
many  times  have  we  gravely  reasoned  that  it 
is  an  unjustifiable  extravagance,  and  debated 
whether  we  ought  not  to  do  without  one 
or  both  ;  but  I  have  always  pleaded  for  the 
retention  of  this  link  between  us  and  the  dear 
old  homeland  ;  and  since  even  philosophers 
cannot  be  expected  always  to  be  consistent 
— how  much  less  philosophers'  wives  ! 

The  Philosopher  is  a  much  more  genuine 
Citizen  of  the  World  than  I,  who  share  puss's 
attachment  to  old  associations  ;  but  then,  I 
am  a  mere  woman,  and  must  be  permitted  the 
weaknesses  of  my  sex.  He,  indeed,  will  thrust 
his  letters  into  his  pockets  unopened,  and  will 
only  remember  to  read  them  when  he  haps  upon 

their  crumpled  remainders.  Whilst  I ! 

In  a  house  where  we  stayed  in  Venice  once, 
there  was  a  maid  who,  rather  than  I  should 
be  so  disappointed,  would  bring  me  the  letters 
addressed  to  the  other  English  visitors,  and 
could  never  be  made  to  understand  that  it 


THE    POST  OFFICE    BABY        103 

was  not  quite  the  same  thing,  and  did  not 
console  me  as  she  intended. 

Here,  even  in  Paradise,  I  am  always  hungry 
for  home  letters  and  home  newspapers,  and 
were  it  not  for  very  shame  each  day  would 
see  me  mounting  the  stairs  which  lead  to  our 
village  post  office.  For  we  have  to  seek  our 
letters  here  ;  no  postman's  "  rat-tat  "  sounding 
at  regular  intervals  upon  our  doors  marks  the 
progress  of  our  day.  There  is  a  legend  of  a 
postman  who  delivers  letters — charging  two- 
pence each — during  the  summer  "  bathing 
season,"  when  native  visitors  pervade  our  tiny 
village  ;  but  if  he  exists,  he  has  never  dis- 
turbed our  quiet  nor  assailed  our  purse  :  we 
are  probably  outside  his  radius. 

Our  postmistress  is  a  dark-eyed  little  lady, 
with  pretty  manners,  and  when  first  I  invaded 
her  room,  proffering  my  wistful  demand  for 
cartas,  she  was,  as  Dickens  was  so  fond  of 
saying,  "  in  that  condition  which  all  ladies 
who  truly  love  their  lords  desire  to  be,"  and 
she  would  sit  with  folded  arms,  sunning  herself 
on  a  chair  outside  her  door,  complaisantly 
smiling  upon  her  little  world.  Then,  one  day, 
when  I  called,  and,  finding  no  one  within, 
ventured  to  rap  on  the  counter,  and  after  a 
reasonable  interval  to  rap  again,  I  was  con- 


104        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

fronted  by  a  frenzied  and  reproachful  little 
husband.  Letters  ?  Who  could  be  thinking 
of  letters  at  such  a  time !  These  incon- 
siderate English  !  No,  no ;  there  were  no 
letters  !  I  properly  abased  myself,  and  went 
away,  feeling  a  brute.  But  all  went  well ; 
and  when  my  craving  for  home  news  drove 
me  there  again,  a  proud  and  happy  little  mother 
was  nursing  a  most  precious  morsel  of  humanity 
at  the  telegraph  table,  while  its  other  parent 
bustled  about,  showing  his  satisfaction  and 
increased  sense  of  importance  in  every  fiercely 
bristling  hair  of  his  black  moustache,  and  the 
very  cock  of  his  tie.  Since  then  the  post 
office  has  been  run  by  Her  Majesty,  The  Post 
office  Baby.  If  we  chance  to  call  during  that 
important  person's  siesta,  and  ask  for  our 
correios  in  our  usual  tones,  we  are  checked  by 
reproachfully  lowered  voices  ;  rattles  and  toys 
look  quite  at  home  upon  the  official  counter  : 
the  young  lady  partakes  of  nourishment  at 
nature's  fount  before  us  all,  and  falls  asleep 
lulled  by  the  ticking  of  the  telegraph  trans- 
mitter. One  hot  morning  I  was  even  per- 
mitted to  tip-toe  into  the  sacred  precincts  and 
secure  my  precious  budget  from  its  pigeon- 
hole myself.  Juanita  was  just  dropping  off 
to  sleep  after  her  bath  and  breakfast ;  the 


THE    POST   OFFICE    BABY        105 

little  postmistress  could  not  be  expected  to 
move.  No  one  would  dream  of  calling  without 
inquiring  after  the  welfare  of  the  little  lady,  if 
she  chances  to  be  absent,  or  interviewing  her 
and  courting  her  smiles  when  she  is  present. 
She  has  inherited  her  mother's  pretty  dark 
eyes,  and  is  really  a  dear  little  soul. 

On  one  of  our  brief  absences  from  home,  when 
The  Philosopher,  brutally  oblivious  of  the 
baby's  existence,  had  merely  written  to  re- 
quest that  our  correspondence  might  be  for- 
warded, we  received  the  following  sweet  reply  : 

"  MOST  EXCELLENT  SENHOE, — 

"  You  can  please  rest  quite  happy  and 
careless  that  all  your  correspondence  shall  be 
sent  where  you  wish  it  to  be.  How  is  your 
most  excellent  senhora  ?  My  daughter  and 
both  of  us  are  very  well.  Always  at  your 
disposition  remains 

"  Your  very  attentive  and  devoted 

"  X." 

The  italics  are  my  own.  But  what  a  re- 
freshing amount  of  simple,  kindly  human  nature 
there  is  in  these  dear  people  !  And  what  would 
dry,  animated  officialdom  at  St.  Martin's  le 
Grand  think  of  a  post  office  run  on  these  homely 
lines  ? 


CHAPTER    XI 

SICK-ROOM   SOLACE 

I  SUPPOSE  everyone  has  some  specially  favourite 
book  :  some  silent  friend  that  to  him  is  con- 
genial as  many  more  brilliant  or  profound  ac- 
quaintances are  not,  and  that  grows  only  dearer 
to  him  with  age.  I  have  known  men  who  have 
carried  everywhere  with  them  a  well-worn 
pocket  Horace,  or  Marcus  Aurelius  ;  there  is 
a  certain  thumb-nail  fragment  of  Shakespeare 
which  lives  always  in  The  Philosopher's  waist- 
coat pocket ;  and  when  I  was  a  schoolgirl  I 
remember  a  senior  who  invariably  prowled 
about  in  recreation-time  with  a  fat,  dingy  old 
dictionary  under  her  arm,  the  perusal  of  which 
she  preferred  to  the  most  exciting  novel  of  Mrs. 
Henry  Wood  or  Ouida.  A  certain  literary 
journal  has  recently  been  asking  its  readers  to 
state  what  work  they  would  severally  choose 
if  they  were  fated  to  be  stranded  upon  a  desert 
island  with  only  one  book  to  lighten  their 
106 


SICK-BOOM   SOLACE  107 

solitude.  The  replies  were  in  some  cases  sur- 
prising, but  no  doubt  perfectly  honest. 

I  have  lately  been  stranded  upon  my  desert 
island.  I  have  been  ill,  and  doomed  to  spend 
long  days  of  painful  weariness  in  bed  at  a  small 
hotel  here ;  and,  as  in  the  mythical  case,  I 
have  had  but  one  book  to  bear  me  company 
— Edward  Carpenter's  Towards  Democracy. 
What  a  book  of  strange  power  it  is,  and  what 
an  unfortunate  title  !  A  title  bound  to  raise 
instinctive  prejudice  and  an  instant  feeling  of 
distaste  in  the  minds  of  so  many  who  could 
best  appreciate  its  mystic  contents.  It  is  a 
title  unreasonably  suggestive  of  the  dogmatism 
of  the  half-educated  and  illogical,  of  super- 
ficial and  flashy  remedies  for  vital  ills,  of  the 
deeply  rooted  antagonism  of  class,  and  the 
strife  of  opposing  parties.  And  thus,  as  beauty 
may  be  hidden  behind  a  repellent  mask,  so 
the  worth  and  scope  of  this  noble  book  will  go 
unrecognised  by  many  on  account  of  its  name. 

Had  I  had  the  baptism  of  it,  I  think  I  would 
have  called  it  The  Book  of  Life.  Any  lesser 
definition  of  it  is  too  small ;  it  is  a  grand,  un- 
trammelled Poem  of  Life — the  Life  which  ex- 
tends from  the  Before  we  entered  upon  this 
little  phase  of  existence,  on  into  the  Beyond 
to  which  we  are  all  wending ;  a  recognition  of 


108        A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

our  repeated  births  and  experiences  upon  our 
way  upward,  nearer  and  ever  nearer  to  The 
Great  Heart  of  the  Universe. 

Truly  it  contains  the  grandest  ideal  of  de- 
mocracy in  its  demand  for  the  discarding  of 
all  shams,  all  smooth  hypocrisies,  in  its  in- 
sistence on  the  Brotherhood  of  Humanity,  and 
of  the  sacred  duty  of  the  strong  to  succour  the 
weak — the  true  noblesse  oblige.  It  expresses 
the  divine  compassion  of  those  who  have  fought 
and  gained  the  mastery,  for  those  who  are  still 
in  the  arena,  combating  the  animal  and  the 
gross  ;  the  recognition  of  the  future  angel  in 
the  lowliest  creature,  and  the  all-pervadingness 
of  God ;  so,  underneath  all  discords  of  this 
world,  the  keynote — Joy.  It  shows  the  pos- 
sible detachment  of  the  Ego  from  the  things  of 
time  and  sense,  the  realisation  of  the  episodical 
nature  of  our  sojourn  here,  and  the  wisdom  of 
a  bright  looking  forward  and  upward. 

But  apart  from  his  noble  message  to  his  age, 
what  a  wonderful  word-painter  Carpenter  is. 
The  thousand  exquisite  thumb-nail  pictures — 
each  perfectly  delicious,  with  not  an  unneces- 
sary phrase !  With  him  I  have  been  able  to 
forsake  my  hot,  dull  sick-room,  leaving  behind 
me  the  white-washed  walls  and  bare-boarded 
floor,  the  monotonous  outlook  of  a  square 


SICK-ROOM    SOLACE  109 

white  chimney  and  a  corner  of  red-tiled  roof, 
glaring  in  the  sun,  with  its  background  of  in- 
tense blue  sky,  and,  forgetting  the  myriads  of 
teasing  flies,  the  pain,  the  weariness  and  un- 
freshness  of  everything,  I  have  flown  with  him 
to  perfect  moments  such  as  these — 

4  The  sower  goes  out  to  sow,  alone  in  the 
morning,  the  early  October  morning  so  beauti- 
ful and  calm. 

"  The  flanks  of  the  clods  are  creeping  with 
thin  vapour,  and  the  little  copse  alongside  the 
field  is  full  of  white  trailing  veils  of  it ; 

"  While  now,  like  a  flood  the  rising  yellow  sun- 
light pours  in,  among  the  brambles  and  under 
the  square  oak-boughs,  and  splashes  through  in 
great  streaks  of  light  over  the  ploughed  land." 

I  am  in  the  dear  homeland  again,  as  I  lie 
dreaming  over  the  picture  :  I  smell  the  up- 
turned red  earth,  I  see  those  films  of  vapour 
moving  and  vanishing  in  the  sun's  first  rays. 
Ah,  the  blessed  refreshment  of  it !  Again — 

:<  The  thrush  sings  meditative  high  in  the 
bare  oak-boughs — while  the  still  April  morning 
just  drops  with  faint  rain,  and  the  honey- 
suckle climbs  snakelike  with  green  wings 
among  the  underwood  ; 

"  The  voice  of  the  ploughman  sounds  across 


110        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  valley,  and  the  cackle  of  the  farmyard 
mingles  with  the  rumble  of  a  distant  train  on 
its  way  to  the  great  city." 

And  then — 

"  The  sun  withdraws  his  rays  ;  the  many 
shadows  are  merged  into  one  ; 

"The  sweet  odour  of  the  white  campion  comes 
floating,  and  of  the  wild  roses  in  neighbouring 
hedgerows,  and  of  the  distant  bean-fields  ; 

"  Twilight  comes,  and  dusk  comes,  and  the 
height  of  the  sky  lifts  and  lifts  ; 

"The  last  of  the  long  daylight  fades " 

I  will  be  even  cooler.  I  will  be  carried 
where — 

:<  The  winter  woods  stretched  all  around  so 
still ! 

"  Every  bough  laden  with  snow — the  faint 
purple  waters  rushing  on  in  the  hollows,  with 
steam  in  the  soft  still  air  ! 

"  Far  aloft  the  arrowy  larch  reached  into 
the  sky,  the  high  air  trembled  with  the  sound 
of  the  loosened  brooks." 

I  lie  motionless  now  ;  no  longer  have  I  the 
distressful  necessity  to  twist  and  turn  and 
fidget :  peace  has  come  to  me,  and  the  heat 
and  the  flies  are  forgotten.  Imagination  stirs 


SICK-ROOM   SOLACE  111 

with  pleasant  interest  ;  my  winged  book  shall 
take  me  farther  afield.     I  flutter  its  pages. 

"  I  am  a  long-eyed  Japanese.  In  the  shadow 
of  the  sacred  thicket  I  lie — where  the  great 
seated  image  of  Buddha  (hollow  within  for  a 
shrine)  breaks  above  me  against  the  blue  sky. 
The  sharp  shadows  lie  under  his  sleepy  lids 
and  soft  mouth  smiling  inwardly.  I  see  on 
his  forehead  the  sacred  spot,  and  from  between 
his  feet  the  emblematic  lotus  springing." 

Then- 

"  The  broad  Italian  landscape  spreads  below 
me — the  lands  of  the  upper  Po  and  Bormida  ; 
I  see  the  wrave-like  congregated  hills  terraced 
with  vines  to  their  very  tops,  the  pink  or  yellow 
painted  homesteads  dotted  here  and  there, 
the  arched  stone  barns,  and  villages  clustered 
on  the  hill-tops  with  belfries  high  against  the 
sky.  .  ." 

Ah,  Italia  benedetta  !  Shall  I  never  tread 
thy  sacred  soil  again  ?  Shall  we  never  again 
wander,  happy  tramps,  where — 

:'  The  Campanile  and  red  roof  of  the  village 
church  show  out  seaward  against  the  sky-line  ; 
and  the  cypresses  stand  sentinel  in  the  cemetery 
on  the  hill  above  ; 

;<  The    borage-flowers    beneath    the    lemon 


112        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

branches  catch  the  hues  of  sea  and  sky  ;  runnels 
of  water  sparkle  through  the  grass  by  the  path- 
side  ;  the  scent  of  orange-jbloom  is  in  the  air ; 
"  Far  back  into  the  valleys  stretch  the  grey 
shade  and  gloom  of  the  olive-yards  ;  and  the 
narrow,  tumbled  alleys  of  the  mountain- 
villages  are  like  huge  rock-burrows  of  human 


;<  The  zigzag  path,  the  lonely  chalet,  the 
patches  of  cultivation  almost  inaccessible, 
the  chestnut  woods,  and  again  the  pinewoods, 
and  beyond  again,  where  no  trees  are,  the 
solitary  pasturages  ; 

"  (The  hidden  upper  valleys,  bare  of  all  but 
rocks  and  grass — they,  too,  with  their  churches 
and  villages  ;) 

"  And  beyond  the  pasturages,  aye  beyond 
the  bare  rocks,  through  the  great  girdle  of  the 
clouds — high  in  air — 

"  The  inacessible  world  of  ice,  scarce  trodden 
of  men." 

A  sob  rises  in  my  dry  throat.  The  awaken- 
ing memories  of  Italy  are  too  bitter-sweet. 
We  have  been  so  happy  there  :  we  have  loved 
her  too  well.  I  should  not  have  strayed  back 
to  her  now,  when  I  am  seeking  peace  and  not 
to  feel! 


SICK-ROOM    SOLACE  113 

But  my  book  falls  open  at  another  page, 
and  I  glance  at  it  through  my  tears. 

"  Let  your  mind  be  quiet,  realising  the  beauty 
of  the  world,  and  the  immense,  the  boundless 
treasures  that  it  holds  in  store. 

"  All  you  have  within  you,  all  that  your 
heart  desires,  all  that  your  Nature  so  specially 
fits  you  for — that  or  the  counterpart  of  it  waits 
embedded  in  the  great  Whole,  for  you.  It 
will  surely  come  to  you. 

"  Yet  equally  surely  not  one  moment  before 
its  appointed  time  will  it  come.  All  your 
crying  and  fever  and  reaching  out  of  hands 
will  make  no  difference." 

Somewhere  in  the  little  street  below  a  caged 
bird  is  singing  :  a  blithe  sweet  twitter  of  free- 
dom and  happiness.  With  the  cruel  custom 
of  these  southern  lands  its  captors  have  pro- 
bably blinded  it,  that  its  song  may  be  more 
constant.  But  not  of  darkness  nor  of  cap- 
tivity nor  loneliness  is  that  song  :  the  brave 
tiny  throat  pulses  and  trills  out  wild  woodland 
memories  of  love  and  lightness  and  joy. 
Higher  and  higher  its  notes  rise 

My  eyes  close  ;  the  book  falls  from  my 
hands.  I  will  be — I  am — content. 

8 


CHAPTER   XII 

ON  THE   SHORE 

I  AM  out  of  my  prison  at  last,  under  the  broad, 
blue,  summer  sky,  faint  but  happy  in  the  sun- 
light. All  the  long  delicious  morning  I  have 
lain  amongst  the  great  rocks — rugged  monsters 
bare  of  seaweed,  huge  russet-brown  boulders, 
interspersed  with  inlets  and  lakes  and  pools, 
where  the  tide  creeps  up,  and  in,  and  out,  and 
stretches  of  sand  where  the  foam  from  the 
spraying  waves  floats  madly  along  in  froth- 
bubbles  borne  on  the  wind.  Before  me,  over 
the  farthermost  rocks,  the  ocean  is  having 
wild  sport,  dashing  up  at  their  jagged  tops, 
splashing  and  breaking  over  the  dark  crests 
in  fine,  broken  clouds  of  snow-white  spray, 
falling  in  frothy  cascades  down  their  sides, 
withdrawing  for  a  brief  instant,  only  to  form 
a  higher  curve  of  wave  to  rush  back  again  to 
the  attack  in  wilder,  merrier  force. 

Even  when  there  is  no  wind,  the  far-heaving 

114 


ON   THE    SHORE  115 

Atlantic  swell — offspring  of  the  distant  storm 
— flings  itself  untiringly  against  these  barriers 
of  sand  and  rock  in  breakers  such  as  are  seldom 
seen  on  English  shores  ;  but  to-day  the  breeze 
is  fresh  and  strong,  and  the  farthest  blue  is 
tipped  here  and  there  with  "  white  horses," 
then,  in  the  nearer  distance,  where  the  rocks 
are  not,  roll  the  broken  lines  of  noble  waves, 
transparently  perfect  in  curve  beneath  their 
foaming  fringe,  exhilarating  to  behold  from 
their  ceaseless  energy,  their  glorious  strength 
and  freshness. 

The  wind,  though  high,  is  balmy,  healing, 
friendly  ;  the  great,  beneficent  sun  irradiates 
all  the  fair  scene,  and,  lying  here  like  some  mere 
flotsam  on  the  shore  of  Life,  health  steals  back 
into  my  veins  and  I  am  filled  with  a  feeling 
of  quiet  joy.  It  is  so  good,  only  to  be  alive 
to  share  in  this  festa  of  Nature's  ;  and  what- 
ever day  of  the  week  this  chances  to  be,  it  is 
serene  and  blessed  Sabbath  in  my  heart. 

I  idly  wonder  what,  exactly,  John  the  Be- 
loved meant,  when,  in  painting  his  grand  word- 
picture  of  his  Jewish  Heaven,  he  wrote,  "  and 
there  shall  be  no  more  sea."  If  ever  there  was 
a  place  where  one  might  expect  to  hap  upon 
the  souls  of  the  blessed,  it  would  be  here — 
gliding  serenely  about  the  brown  old  rocks, 


116        A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

holding  sweet  converse  in  the  silent  coves, 
or  floating  in  blissful  lightness  on  the  snowy 
wave-crests  ;  here  on  the  marge  of  the  ocean, 
the  element  so  free,  so  fresh  from  God's  hand, 
so  unspoilt  and  unspoilable  by  man's  defiling 
touch. 

Perhaps,  exiled  and  lonely,  he  was  thinking 
of  it  only  from  the  point  of  view  of — 

"The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea  !  " 

And  then,  indeed,  I  can  understand  his 
meaning.  For  poor  souls,  whose  hearts  ache 
through  a  long  lifetime  for  dear  ones  parted 
from  them  by  the  awful  spaces  of  ocean,  who 
strain  longing  eyes  across  the  waste,  extending 
empty,  hungry  arms,  to  them  what  strange 
sweetness,  what  unutterable  comfort  there 
must  lie  in  that  mystical  assurance — 

"  There  shall  be  no  more  sea  !  " 

I  am  able  to  walk  again,  and  for  some 
bright  hours  to-day  The  Philosopher  and  I 
have  been  a  pair  of  happy,  careless  chil- 
dren, scrambling  about  amongst  the  great 
rocks,  sliding  down  chasms,  leaping  perilous 
waterways,  peering  into  deep,  wave-worn 
pools  amongst  the  huge  boulders,  where  tiny 
fishes  shyly  dart  in  and  out,  and  sober  crabs 


ON   THE   SHORE  117 

lurk,  and  beautiful  anemones  of  blue  and 
crimson  and  brown  fringe  the  sides  ;  and  then, 
weary  and  blissful,  we  settled  down  at  length 
in  a  sun-dried  cleft  of  a  great  dark  rock,  and 
The  Philosopher  started  to  work,  whilst  I,  as 
a  pampered  convalescent,  rested  in  idleness, 
feasting  my  eyes  upon  all  the  fresh  beauty 
of  spraying  wave  and  calm  blue  sky,  and 
mused,  and  mused 

Until,  suddenly,  my  mood  changed,  and  the 
sunlight  seemed  blotted  out. 

How  strange  it  is  to  know  so  surely  that 
we  have  just  so  many  more  days  of  this  beauti- 
ful life  :  that  slowly,  slowly  but  inexorably, 
the  time  is  stealing  nearer  when  we  shall  have 
eaten  our  last  bean,  spent  our  last  reis,  and  the 
hour  will  have  struck  for  us  to  go  out  of  this 
world.  We  are  happy  in  the  sunshine  still, 
but  the  shadow  creeps  silently,  remorselessly 
on,  nearer,  ever  nearer 

For  a  moment  my  arrested  heart  antici- 
pated its  chill,  its  horror,  and  I  quailed  and 
shrank.  Life  is  so  sweet !  If  it  were  but 
possible  to  wait  for  the  natural  summons  to 
depart  hence  !  I  have  never  been  of  those 
who  shrink  from  Death,  who  dread  the  secret 
it  has  to  disclose  ;  rather  have  I  felt  a  bright 
anticipation  of  the  Future  beyond  it,  and  the 


118        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

probable  wider  faculties.  Judging  it  to  be  as 
natural  a  thing  as  birth,  and  so  utterly  a  thing 
in  which  we  are  the  helpless  puppets  in  stronger 
hands,  I  have  felt  that  we  are  surely  safe,  and 
that  we  can  be  content  to  be  passive,  waiting 
meekly  for  the  hour  which  has  been  fixed  for 
the  Turning  of  the  Key  in  the  Lock,  the  slow 
swinging  open  of  the  Door,  the  gleam  of  the 
Light  Beyond  welcoming  us  encouragingly 
as  we  falter  on  the  threshold.  But  that  is  a 
different  matter  to  oneself  battering  upon 
the  closed  portal,  violating  that  dread  Lock, 
rushing  in  unbidden,  prematurely  ! 

What  a  strange,  unequal  world  it  is  !  That 
there  should  be  those  who  have  so  much  more 
of  the  metal  with  which  one  buys  comfort  here 
than  they  can  possibly  enjoy,  and  others,  who 
need  such  a  little  measure,  are  forced  to  die 
for  the  lack  of  it. 

I  remember  reading  of  two  people,  a  year 
or  two  ago — she  was  an  artist  and  he  a  writer — 
and  when,  like  ourselves,  they  were  worsted 
in  the  struggle  they  threw  to  the  hungry 
waiting  world  two  last  sops — she  a  little  book 
upon  her  art,  he,  his  bitterly  gained  advice 
to  literary  beginnners.  But  the  callous  world 
wanted  none  of  their  pathetic  efforts  ;  it  cried, 
"  Amuse,  amuse,  or — cease  to  trouble  me  !  " 


ON   THE    SHORE  119 

So  the  Inevitable  came  for  them,  and  they  went 
out.  The  Philosopher  and  I  are  in  like  case 
to  theirs.  What  wares  have  we  to  offer  that 
the  world  would  care  to  buy  ?  Unfitted  by 
temperament,  by  health,  by  custom,  to  barter 
and  wrangle  and  fight  in  its  market-place, 
there  is  no  possibility  left  for  people  such  as 
we  when  money  is  gone.  One  must  confront 

the  truth.     And  yet 

I  looked  up  into  that  dearer  face  beside  me, 
and  The  Philosopher,  glancing  down  in  re- 
sponse, asked  me  quickly  whether  I  was  cold. 
No,  not  cold,  I  responded,  but  bored — just 
bored  by  my  thoughts.  If  he  would  read 
aloud  to  me,  a  little  of  his  grave,  wise  book, 
I  should  be  all  right — all  right ! 

Evening.  I  am  myself  again  now ;  the 
coward  mood  has  passed.  "  It  is  not  well  to 
think  of  death,  unless  we  temper  the  thought 
with  that  of  heroes  who  despised  it."  I  have 
remembered  Socrates,  going  to  his  death  with 
such  unruffled  calm  :  his  sonorous,  unflinching 
last  words  to  friends  and  enemies  alike,  "  The 
hour  of  departure  has  arrived,  and  we  go  our 
ways — I  to  die,  and  you  to  live  ;  but  which  of 
us  has  the  better  part,  is  known  to  God  alone." 

Ah,  that  better  part  may  after  all  be  ours  : 


120        A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

to  pass  out  in  silence  now,  rather  than  to 
linger  on,  losing  courage,  dignity,  indepen- 
dence— perhaps  even  coming  to  accept  a 
grudging  charity.  I  will  flinch  no  more  ;  I 
will  be  staunch,  brave,  and  careless. 

Years  ago,  at  a  little  chalet-hotel  on  a  Swiss 
mountain-side,  a  strange  woman  shared  our 
table  one  night.  She  was  an  Austrian,  gaunt, 
middle-aged,  unlovely  ;  alone  on  a  walking 
tour  through  the  Alps.  Before  the  meal  was 
over  she  had  confided  her  story  to  us.  She 
was  doomed  to  blindness  ;  the  specialists  had 
given  her  just  so  many  months  before  the  dark- 
ness would  close  in  upon  her  irrevocably  ;  and 
she  was  spending  those  last  brief  months  of 
vision  in  seeing  all  that  she  could  of  the  beauties 
of  the  world,  so  that,  when  the  dread  time  at 
length  came,  her  blankness  might  be  relieved 
by  the  glories  which  memory  would  summon 
to  her  aid.  Pictures  had  become  but  a  blur 
to  her,  stately  buildings  were  now  confused 
and  indistinct,  music  neither  charmed  nor 
soothed ;  she  could  no  longer  read,  and  her 
nerves  were  strung  at  too  high  a  tension  to 
endure  a  voice  reading  to  her ;  but  the  green 
solitudes  of  those  Alpine  valleys  had  power 
to  bring  peace  to  her  soul,  the  distant  snowy 
peaks  were  somehow  comforting  and  clear 


ON   THE    SHORE  121 

to  her  strained  vision.  When  I  inquired  for 
her  on  the  morrow,  it  was  to  learn  that  she 
had  passed  upon  her  solitary  way  at  sunrise  ; 
but  she  left  me  the  richer  for  her  example  of 
quiet  heroism.  God  send  her  solace  now, 
when  the  end  must  long  have  come  to  her  ! 

I  have  thought  of  a  hero  too.  A  little  red- 
headed fellow,  who,  with  the  superciliousness 
of  girlhood,  I  judged  to  be  neither  interesting 
nor  extraordinary.  But  he  had  his  moment. 
It  came  one  day  in  the  Australian  bush  when 
his  companion's  gun  accidentally  exploded 
and  he  was  shot.  He  looked  up  smilingly 
into  the  face  of  his  friend,  who  knelt  beside 
him,  frantic  with  grief  and  self-reproach. 
"  Sorry,  old  chap,"  he  whispered.  "  Like 
my  damned  awkwardness — getting  in  the 
way  !  " — and  died. 

Now,  how  dare  I  flinch  or  repine  ? 


CHAPTER    XIII 

SUMMER  INCIDENTS 

A  QUEER  and  incongruous  incident  is  hap- 
pening just  now.  The  most  ancient  mode 
of  locomotion  and  the  most  modern  in- 
dustrial impulse  have  united ;  a  great  quiet 
reigns  in  the  ruas  of  our  big  town,  and  the 
roads  leading  to  it  are  strangely  peaceful 
and  deserted — the  ox-carts  have  gone  out 
on  strike  ! 

Women  carry  piecemeal  upon  their  heads 
the  loads  which  the  carts  usually  convey  ; 
crude  little  hand-trucks  have  suddenly  sprung 
into  being  ;  everything  is  disorganised,  for — 
the  ox-carts  are  on  strike. 

It  appears  that  their  primitive  wheels  do 
great  damage  to  the  roads,  as,  when  the  cart 
requires  to  turn,  it  necessitates  a  heavy  drag 
round  of  the  whole  concern  by  main  force — 
each  wheel  being  rigidly  attached  to  the  axle — 
and  the  town  authorities  have  issued  a  mandate 
122 


SUMMER    INCIDENTS  123 

that,  for  the  future,  all  carts  entering  the  town 
must  have  their  wheels  moving  independently  of 
each  other,  on  penalty  of  a  fine.  But  many  of 
the  ox-cart  owners  are  very  poor,  and  the  cost 
of  making  the  required  alteration  would  mean 
much  to  them ;  hence  this  protest.  Also, 
apart  from  any  consideration  of  cost,  there 
is  the  essential  underlying  spirit  of  the  country  : 
The  old  ways  have  always  done  well  enough, 
why  should  they  be  forced  to  change  ?  Their 
fathers  did  not  have  independent  wheels  to 
their  carts,  why  should  they  be  expected  to 
do  so  ?  It  is  but  another  proof  of  unjusti- 
fiable tyranny  !  I  have  little  doubt  that  the 
poor  government  gets  the  credit  for  the  hateful 
innovation. 

Later.  After  much  excitement  and  infinite 
talk  the  strike  has  ended  as  so  many  efforts 
at  reform  end  here  ;  it  has  proved  but  a  damp 
firework,  which  has  fizzled  out  ignominiously. 
The  old  rigid  wheels  grind  along  the  roads 
again  ;  it  was  inconvenient  to  everybody  to 
be  without  the  service  of  the*  ox-carts,  so  no 
more  is  said  about  the  new  regulation  ;  and 
when  one  questions  an  ox  driver,  he  just 
shrugs  his  shoulders  in  good-humoured  irre- 
sponsibility, and  drawls,  "  Eu  nao  set" — I 


124        A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

don't  know  !    and  nobody  troubles  any  more 
about  it. 

These  southern  races  are  blissfully  exempt 
from  the  baleful  influence  of  the  Work-microbe  ; 
and  the  manner  in  which  we  more  strenuous 
northern  races  fret  and  worry  and  bustle  about 
our  business  concerns  would  seem  most  strange 
and  unreasonable  to  them.  It  is,  after  all, 
just  a  matter  of  climate.  Where  Nature  is 
so  kindly,  the  sun  and  the  earth  so  beneficent, 
one's  wants  are  fewer,  life  is  simplified,  and 
nerves  and  brain  are  more  content  to  rest 
and  be  contemplative. 

In  the  Canaries  I  had  a  stout  criada  who, 
when  I  made  a  request,  would  smile  ex- 
asperatingly,  and,  folding  her  fat  arms  above 
her  ample  stomach,  would  placidly  reply 
"  Manana  !  " — "  Manana  "  there,  "  Amariha  " 
here,  to-morrow  ! — that  is  the  true  southern 
spirit.  Plenty  of  time  to-morrow  :  why  trouble 
to-day  ?  But  one  of  the  English  shipping 
firms  endeavours  to  counteract  this  un-English 
point  of  view  amongst  their  employees,  and 
over  the  big  white  face  of  the  office  clock 
is  the  stern  admonition — DO  IT  NOW  ! 

On  a  certain  day  last  week,  when  I  was  busy 


SUMMER    INCIDENTS  125 

in  a  little  wooden  shed  in  the  garden,  though 
apparently  alone,  I  was  aware  of  a  gradually 
increasing  consciousness  that  some  one  was 
watching  me.  I  turned,  looking  down,  and 
there,  sitting  up  on  its  haunches,  with  one  arm 
extended  to  steady  itself  against  the  jamb  of 
the  doorway,  was  the  wisest  and  most  intelli- 
gent-looking of  toad-persons,  observing  me 
intently.  He  seemed  quite  unconcerned  at 
my  interest  in  him  ;  rather  assuring  me  by 
his  gaze  that  it  was  reciprocal.  So  I  sat  him 
on  the  palm  of  my  hand  and  took  him  indoors 
to  interview  The  Philosopher.  He  was  such  a 
self-possessed  and  unusual  toad,  and  we  were 
so  charmed  with  his  air  of  calm,  unprejudiced 
wisdom — the  placid  outlook  of  a  sage  so  in- 
terested in  observing  Life  that  he  feared 
nothing — that  we  concluded  it  would  be  de- 
lightful if  he  would  share  our  domicile,  and 
live  henceforth  secure  from  danger  of  dogs 
and  children.  So  we  made  him  a  dark  cave 
of  crumpled  brown  paper  in  a  corner,  and 
introduced  milk  and  bread-crumbs  for  his 
delectation. 

But  the  next  morning,  after  greeting  him  by 
the  affectionate  name  of  the  "  Old  'un"  and 
leaving  him  serenely  observing  his  surroundings 
from  the  mouth  of  his  cave,  The  Philosopher 


126        A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

was  called  away  to  interview  a  peasant  woman. 
The  big  door  was  standing  open  while  a  long 
and  animated  discussion  took  place  upon  some 
trivial  point — as  to  whether  eight  days  should 
be  counted  as  a  week,  or  some  equally  en- 
tangled problem — and  when  he  returned  the 
wise  toad-person  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  We 
hunted  everywhere,  but  discovered  no  trace 
of  him,  and  we  had  at  last  reluctantly  to  con- 
clude that  he  had  preferred  to  decline  our 
hospitality  and  had  slipped  off  through  the 
open  door  and  down  the  steps.  But,  as  the 
story-books  say,  there  was  a  sequel. 

We  have  been  troubled  by  the  visits  of  mice 
lately,  and  though  we  do  not  begrudge  the 
little  creatures  a  small  levy  upon  our  supplies, 
they  had  become  really  outrageous  in  their 
depredations,  bringing  up  from  the  farmyard 
each  night  fresh  relays  of  "  their  sisters  and 
their  cousins  and  their  aunts  "  to  share  in  their 
orgies.  So  at  length,  with  firm  resolution, 
The  Philosopher  went  off  to  the  town  and 
brought  home  a  trap  of  the  guillotine  variety, 
with  a  strong  spring  to  bring  down  instant 
retribution  upon  the  neck  of  any  brazen  robber 
venturing  over  its  threshold.  When  night 
came  he  baited  it  and  set  it  down  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  kitchen. 


SUMMER   INCIDENTS  127 

"  Now  we  shall  soon  see  !  "  he  announced 
grimly,  as  we  sat  down  to  supper. 

"  Sss-nap  !  "  sharply  went  the  trap  before 
we  had  finished  our  beans. 

"  There  !  "  cried  The  Philosopher,  in  tri- 
umph. "  You  see — already  !  " 

And  he  went  off  to  inspect. 

"It's  an  uncommonly  large  mouse,"  he 
cried  doubtfully,  peering  into  the  corner  in 
the  semi-darkness. 

Then,  gingerly  lifting  the  trap,  he  brought 
it  into  the  range  of  the  lamp-light,  and  there, 
suspended  by  one  leg,  was  the  poor  batra- 
chian  ! 

He  had  evidently  lived  for  the  intervening 
days  hidden  under  the  big  dresser,  venturing 
out  each  night  in  search  of  stray  crumbs,  and 
so  the  fate  of  the  robbers  had  overtaken  him. 
We  wondered  what  they  thought  of  him,  and 
he  of  them,  when  they  chanced  to  meet  in 
their  maraudings  in  the  quiet  hours  of  the 
night. 

Eager  to  make  atonement  for  the  insult  we 
had  so  unwittingly  offered  him,  we  carried 
him  down  to  the  frog-pond  in  the  moonlight, 
and  there  bade  him  a  reluctant  farewell, 
leaving  him  to  be  nursed  back  by  Dame  Nature 
to  the  enjoyment  of  his  freedom  with  his  own 


128       A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

people,  in  a  corner  amongst  the  reeds,  where 
he  could  avenge  himself  for  his  enforced  vege- 
tarian diet  of  crumbs  by  succulent  meals  of 
young  frogs. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

QUIET   DAYS 

THE  days  glide  by  in  such  pleasant  monotony, 
with  so  little  to  mark  their  course,  that  the 
recurring  Sundays  take  us  by  surprise,  and 
the  sound  of  the  exordium  and  prayers  of  the 
weekly  beggar  beneath  our  windows  in  the 
dawn  often  alone,  proves  to  us  that  another 
week  is  ended,  another  one  has  begun.  Our 
only  other  Time-marks  are  a  few  days  of  better 
health,and  of  feverish  work,  for  The  Philosopher, 
followed  by  a  fresh  relapse  into  languor  and 
insomnia,  when  I  steal  about  our  little  house 
on  tiptoe,  grieving  for  unprocurable  comforts 
for  him  ;  short  lashing  rain-storms  between 
long  days  of  sunshine,  clear  air,  and  blue  sky  ; 
serene  moons,  and  soft,  dark  nights  of  stars  ; 
and  the  time  steals  by  with  as  fatal  a  facility 
as  these  grains  of  white  sand  slip  from  between 
my  fingers — it  will  almost  as  soon  be  ended. 
When  I  awake  now  in  the  grey  dawn  of  the 
129  9 


130        A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

morning,  my  gradual  return  to  consciousness 
is  suddenly  postulated  by  a  sharp,  overpowering 
sense  of  dread.  My  heart  is  momentarily 
arrested,  then  bounds  forward  with  the  hurried 
beats  of  a  sickening  and  nameless  fear.  Reason 
has  not  yet  assumed  control,  and  I  suffer  hor- 
ribly. The  most  frequent  torment  of  this 
"  dawn-mare  "  is  the  sensation  that  we  are 
falling,  falling  down  some  precipice  ;  we  seek 
to  clutch  at  its  smooth  sides,  we  grasp  some 
treacherous  weed  or  yielding  clump  of  grass — 
in  vain  !  Voicelessly,  helplessly,  we  are  sinking 
down  into  the  void,  and  there  is  none  to  out- 
stretch a  saving  hand. 

This  waking  dream  never  reaches  the  in- 
evitable catastrophe,  there  is  no  finality — only, 
ever  and  always,  this  paralysing,  deadly  grip 
of  fear  :  the  despairing  horror  of  the  falling, 
never  the  passive  quiet  of  The  End. 

If  I  could  but  attain  to  The  Philosopher's 
sweet  serenity,  both  for  himself  and  for  me  ! 
If  I  did  not  love  this  present  Life  so  dearly, 
if  my  blood  did  not  pulse  in  such  intensity  of 
sympathy  with  all  human  doings — with  Love, 
knowledge,  mirth,  and  beauty,  with  pain  and 
sorrow  and  even  sin — it  might  not  be  so  hard 
to  go  ! 


QUIET    DAYS  131 

This  morning  I  had  a  beautiful  new  experi- 
ence :  I  assisted  at  a  birth.  The  sunshine 
to-day  is  the  richer  for  a  tiny  lovely  creature 
over  whose  nativity  I  was  privileged  to  pre- 
side. A  week  or  two  ago  I  chanced  to  find 
a  queer  little  cocoon,  and  brought  it  indoors 
with  me.  It  was  an  uninteresting  little  object, 
of  a  dull  grey,  undistinguished  in  form,  and, 
when  I  touched  it,  its  more  pointed  end  gave 
a  feeble  wriggle  of  protest.  I  carelessly  put 
it  up  on  the  ledge  of  a  picture  frame  and  forgot 
all  about  it.  But  this  morning,  before  the 
sun  had  risen,  when  I  was  busy  at  my  table, 
something  fell  from  above  almost  into  my 
hands,  and  there  was  the  little  grey  cocoon, 
but  animated  now  with  strange  internal  con- 
vulsions. The  blunt  end  of  it  was  slightly 
open  ;  the  length  of  it  was  very  gradually 
cracking  open  from  the  force  of  the  efforts 
within.  Presently  a  head,  consisting  mostly 
of  two  great  startled  eyes,  appeared,  then  a 
couple  of  quivering  antennae  sprang  forward 
into  their  position  from  the  restraint  of  the 
shell ;  two  slender  front  legs  were  next  drawn 
from  their  prison,  and  clutched  on  to  my  hand 
for  assistance  in  their  weak  struggles  for  free- 
dom. I  ventured  to  hold  the  tapering  tail-end 
of  the  shell,  and,  assisted  thus,  the  cracks 


132        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

gradually  went  on  until  a  queer,  unhappy 
little  creature  had  freed  itself  entirely  from 
body  and  wing  cases,  and  sat  on  my  palm 
looking  strangely  forlorn  in  a  great  new  world. 
Its  wings  were  all  crumpled  up  at  its  sides, 
useless  and  confused  ;  it  seemed  numbed  with 
the  keen  morning  air,  and  quite  unready  to 
take  up  life  on  its  own  account.  I  placed  it 
under  a  glass  upon  a  window-sill  where  the 
sun  would  soon  come,  and  went  about  my 
concerns.  In  an  hour  or  two,  when  I  remem- 
bered it,  what  a  transformation  the  warmth 
and  light  had  brought  about !  The  crumpled, 
useless  wings  were  widely  outspread — bright 
golden-yellow  in  the  sunshine — or  folded  up- 
wards together  like  two  hands  at  prayer  ;  the 
creature  was  all  animation,  impatient  to  start 
upon  its  new  life  of  enjoyment.  I  lifted  the 
glass.  For  an  instant  it  paused  irresolutely, 
doubtful,  perhaps,  of  its  untried  powers  ;  then 
the  beautiful  golden  wings  quivered  and  opened, 
and  fearlessly,  rapturously,  gaining  strength 
and  control  with  each  movement,  it  fluttered 
off  into  the  sunlight  of  the  new  day.  What- 
ever memories  it  retained  of  its  former  earth- 
bound  state  must  have  been  of  the  vaguest 
description.  It  seemed  akin  to  the  death- 
birth  of  a  soul  into  heaven. 


QUIET   DAYS  133 

I  have  been  reading  once  more  the  tragedy 
of  the  Carlyles.  What  a  pitiful  picture  it  is 
to  contemplate  !  That  intellectual  giant,  after 
all  his  strenuous,  heroic  years  of  splendid  work 
for  his  kind — grand  work  accomplished  in  spite 
of  narrow  circumstances,  ill-health,  and  a 
hampering  personality — spending  his  last  years 
in  pathetic  repentance  for  his  supposed  neglect 
of  his  life's  companion.  And  what  a  want  of 
judgment  and  humanity,  all  the  petty,  un- 
necessary revelations  prove.  I  can  imagine 
Jane  Carlyle's  burning  eyes  turned  upon  the 
revealer  in  bitter  scorn.  "  And  thank  you  for 
nothing,  James  Froude  ! "  she  would  have 
cried,  could  she  have  known  how  her  Philo- 
sopher's old  age  would  have  been  embittered, 
and  his  fame  after  death  darkened,  for  the 
sake  of  "  doing  justice  to  her  memory." 
Whistler's  wonderful  portrait  tells  the  whole 
sad  story — the  sorrow,  the  self-reproach  and 
humiliation — more  truly  than  any  words  can 
do,  and  there  the  matter  should  have  been 
decently  buried. 

Mrs.  Carlyle  was  no  meek  saint.  She 
grumbled,  she  suffered,  indeed  ;  but  I  doubt 
whether,  had  the  choice  been  given  her,  she 
would  have  been  content  with  any  lesser  lot 
for  the  sake  of  greater  happiness  or  ease.  She 


134       A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

stood  between  her  Philosopher  and  the  world  ; 
she  recognised  his  genius,  and  it  was  her  high 
privilege  to  "  give  him  his  chance."  She 
heroically  consented  to  go  to  Craigenputtock 
that  he  might  have  the  leisure  he  needed  to  don 
his  armour  for  the  fight,  and  to  test  its  metal ; 
and  though  her  restless  spirit  may  have  chafed 
at  the  loneliness  and  narrowness  of  her  life 
there,  I  think  she  must  have  felt  that  Sartor 
Eesartus  was  worth  it  all.  True  women  do 
not  marry  to  tread  henceforth  a  path  of  roses, 
but  to  share  with  a  chosen  comrade  in  all  the 
struggles  of  Life.  To  dare,  to  suffer — to 
endure  pain,  loneliness,  neglect  even,  if  so 
they  may  help  that  other  one.  This  is  a 
nobler  fate  than  mere  happiness.  As  the 
Sage  himself  said,  "  There  is  in  man  a 
HIGHER  than  Love  of  Happiness  :  he  can  do 
without  Happiness,  and  instead  thereof  find 
Blessedness  !  " 

This  "  Blessedness "  satisfies  a  woman's 
nature  as  the  selfish  seeking  for  her  own  pleasure 
never  can ;  and  it  is  this  spirit  of  joyful  self- 
sacrifice  which  places  marriage  without  the 
pale  of  ordinary  criticism.  In  all  true  wife- 
hood  there  is  an  element  of  the  Mother-love  ; 
tolerant,  tender,  protecting  ;  at  times,  perhaps, 
even  a  spice  of  amusement ;  but  always,  and 


QUIET    DAYS  135 

in  everything,  a  loving  comprehension.     And — 
Tout  comprendre,  c'est  tout  pardonner. 

Some  wise  man  once  said,  "  There  are  but 
two  people  who  can  tell  the  whole  truth  of  a 
man  and  a  woman's  relationship — and  they 
won't."  Personally,  I  believe  the  two  dear 
creatures  quite  understood  each  other,  and  that 
there  was  honey  beneath  the  vinegar  for  them 
both.  Peace  to  their  troubled  memories  ! 


CHAPTER    XV 

THE   ETERNAL  FEMININE 

WE  are  experiencing  a  season  of  wet,  unpleasing 
weather.  All  day  our  sea  lies  still,  grey  and 
sullen,  just  showing  a  fringe  of  white  teeth 
near  the  shore  ;  and  from  the  south-west  the 
great  billowy  clouds  roll  up,  dark  with  their 
burden  of  rain,  which  ever  and  anon  descends 
in  a  heavy  downpour,  keeping  us  prisoners 
in  our  little  fortress  behind  the  streaming 
window-panes.  Along  the  sodden  road  an 
occasional  disconsolate  peasant  passes,  en- 
veloped in  his  queer  mackintosh  composed 
of  layers  of  long  dried  grasses,  appearing  like 
a  small  perambulating  haystack  ;  or  a  woman 
patters  along  barefooted,  with  her  skirts  tucked 
high,  and  her  thick  woollen  shawl  drawn  closely 
over  her  head  ;  otherwise  all  are  sheltered  in 
their  cottages,  for  these  southern  races  hate  rain. 
The  Philosopher,  whistling  happily,  is  ab- 
sorbed in  reproducing  a  copy  of  his  beloved 
130 


THE   ETERNAL   FEMININE       137 

Turner's  "  Teme'raire,"  and,  wrestling  with  the 
intricacies  of  that  gorgeous  sunset,  he  is  ob- 
livious of  leaden  skies  and  lashing  rain.  There 
is  much  to  be  said  for  colours  in  such  weather 
as  this. 

I,  less  fortunate,  a  devotee  of  the  bald  printed 
page,  have  been  poring  over  first  some  novels 
of  the  French  school,  and  later,  some  of  the 
plaints  of  the  women  of  our  day,  and  I  am 
fittingly  depressed  by  both.  The  fleshly  school 
invariably  arouses  in  me  a  perverse  spirit  of 
antagonism.  The  "  field  of  vision  "  is  so  out  of 
focus  ;  it  gives  to  one  side  of  life  such  a  dis- 
proportionate importance.  Love  is  good, 
passion  is  good,  but  so  is  a  very  great  deal  else 
in  life,  and  when  books  such  as  these,  written 
by  women  in  most  cases,  claim  to  be  serious 
psychological  studies  of  Woman,  I  would  sug- 
gest that  there  is  a  flaw  in  their  titles  ;  that 
it  is  not  Woman  with  the  capital  W  who  is 
here  dissected  for  our  doubtful  edification,  but 
a  woman  ;  or  say,  five,  ten,  twenty  women — 
neurotic,  super-sexed,  self-absorbed  women. 
Like  poor  Melisande,  they  "  are  not  happy," 
and  in  these  books  they  are  presented  in  the 
nude,  proclaiming  their  wants,  their  vague 
desires,  their  discontent  to  all  mankind. 

It  is  all  so  chaotic,  premature,  unbalanced. 


138        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

What  do  they  wish  ?  What  do  they  lack  ? 
That  woman's  position  is  in  a  transitionary 
state  no  thoughtful  person  can  deny.  Pro- 
gress and  education  are  affecting  her  con- 
dition, as  so  much  else.  She  has  had  her 
day  as  a  goddess,  she  has  had  her  day  as  a 
serf  ;  and  now  the  last  shackles  are  falling 
from  her  limbs  ;  she  is  stirring,  rising,  but 
with  spasmodic,  unmodulated  movements. 
She  does  not  yet  know  in  what  lies  her  strength, 
in  what  her  weakness  ;  and  nothing  but  the 
beneficent  action  of  Time  will  draw  her  to 
the  gradual  true  realisation  of  herself. 

In  the  early  days  of  Catholicism  woman's 
sensuous  nature  had  its  vent  in  the  forms 
and  mysteries  of  voluptuous  worship.  The 
sexual  instinct  was  sublimated.  The  Mother 
with  her  Child  was  upon  the  altar,  "  and 
every  woman  became  holy  in  her  womanhood, 
and  wrong  and  harshness  towards  any  child 
a  sacrilege."  When  the  Puritan  revolt  came, 
man  placed  his  wife,  daughter,  sister  in  the 
Mary's  empty  niche,  and  thenceforth  saintly 
purity  and  sexlessness  was  exacted  from 
every  woman.  But  woman  found  a  difficulty 
in  breathing  this  rarefied  air  ;  she  revolted  in 
secret,  whence  came  the  excitement  of  witch- 
craft, real  or  imaginary,  its  whispers  of  bestial 


THE    ETERNAL   FEMININE        139 

devilment  and  hysterical  horror.  Woman  fell 
from  her  pedestal  into  the  mud  of  the  market- 
place ;  her  divinity  was  gone  for  ever.  Then 
came  a  dreary  level,  when  man  drank  hard, 
and  had  not  "  rounded  Cape  Turk  "  ;  and  a 
"  good "  woman  was  accounted  by  him  as 
one  without  individuality,  humdrum,  tedious  ; 
a  colourless  companion  for  his  bed  and  board, 
to  be  his  sick-nurse  and  his  housekeeper,  but 
no  sharer  of  his  thoughts  or  pleasures.  An 
Amelia,  ever  melting  into  the  facile  tears  of 
sensibility  ;  a  patient  Griselda  perhaps,  but  a 
very  trying  one  !  We  have  many  graphic 
portraits  of  her  ;  her  "  genteel "  delicacy  of 
health,  her  nerves,  her  swoons,  her  apathetic 
submission,  not  necessarily  to  a  beloved  mate, 
but  to  a  man  whom  she  chanced  to  call  hus- 
band ;  ever  prating  cold  Duty  as  her  sole 
incentive,  taking  all  the  festival  of  marital  joy 
listlessly,  even  complainingly,  in  an  aggra- 
vatingly  martyr  spirit.  Such  women  as  these 
were  indeed  calculated  to  transform  the  "  cakes 
and  ale "  of  marriage  into  "cold  baked  funeral 
meats  "  ;  and  it  is  good  to  know  that  their 
day  is  over. 

But  of  what  consists  the  ideal  mate  ?  I 
think  that  from  a  man's  point  of  view  she  is 
no  new  production  ;  we  have  all  bowed  before 


140        A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

her  shrine  in  history,  poem,  and  song.  She 
is  the  woman — the  primeval  woman — who 
loves  deeply,  devotedly,  warmly,  self-effacingly ; 
whose  passion  flows  straight  from  her  large 
heart,  with  more  than  a  spice  of  Motherhood 
in  its  protecting  tenderness  ;  one  who  would 
do  and  dare  and  suffer  all  things  for  the 
beloved  man.  Not  necessarily  a  clever  woman, 
except  in  the  things  that  pertain  to  the  heart, 
but  a  woman  whose  love  warms  without 
scorching,  and  whose  mere  presence  brings 
comfort  and  peace,  upon  whose  bosom  heroes 
may  rest.  Of  such  was  Hero,  and  Juliet,  and 
little  Lucy  Feverel. 

Even  this  ideal,  however,  is  changing  with 
the  times,  and  the  true  woman  of  the  future 
will  be  one  who  is  capable  of  as  much  warmth, 
as  boundless  devotion  as  her  primeval  sister, 
but  one  who  will  have  clear  eyes  of  criticism  ; 
who  must  love  downwards,  from  the  brain 
to  the  heart ;  a  woman  who  will  demand  that 
her  reason  shall  assent  to  her  emotions  ;  dis- 
tinctly not  the  type  carelessly  to  fling  her 
cap  over  the  windmills,  and  count  the  world 
well  lost  for  Love  ;  but  her  love,  once  won, 
will  be  capable  of  making  life  heaven  for  the 
beloved  man. 

Strangely,  some  most  modern  women  have 


THE    ETERNAL   FEMININE       Ul 

assuredme  that,  deeper  than  the  desire  for  man's 
love  is  their  yearning  towards  Motherhood. 

In  an  old  number  of  the  long-defunct 
Savoy  there  occurs  a  pathetic  little  story  of  a 
girl.  Just  an  insignificant  little  attendant 
in  an  A.  B.  C.  off  Cheapside,  who  dully  accepted 
the  fact  of  her  own  unloveliness,  and  lived  on, 
a  lonely  atom  in  the  great  city.  Men  were 
not  attracted  to  her ;  men  did  not  attract 
her.  Yet  at  the  bottom  of  her  very  ordinary 
girlish  heart  there  was  ever  an  inarticulate 
want,  a  yearning,  a  sense  of  unsatisfied  hunger. 
At  length  there  came  a  time  when  there 
sprang  up  a  whimsical  and  quite  unsenti- 
mental friendship  between  the  girl  and  a  man, 
a  customer ;  and  in  the  new  experience  she  came 
to  realise  the  need  of  her  poor,  empty  heart. 

"I  think,"  she  said  softly,  "if  I  had  a 
baby,  my  very  own,  I  should  want  nothing — 
nothing  in  this  world  more  than  that." 

The  idea  is  beautiful,  in  this  pure  sense, 
but — is  it  true  ?  Is  there  not  rather  a  wide- 
spread revolt  against  maternity  amongst  an 
ever-increasing  section  of  women  ?  Few  have 
the  genius  for  Motherhood  ;  fewer  still  would 
desire  the  condition  except  as  the  outcome 
of  deep  marital  love,  which  renders  the  off- 
spring precious. 


142        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

Others  make  a  strong  plea  for  early  marriage. 
They  assert  that  a  girl  from  fifteen  to  twenty 
is  in  her  prime  for  marriage.  It  may  be  so, 
if  the  sex-faculty  is  the  chief  end  of  love  and 
marriage,  as  too  many  books  of  the  day 
imply.  In  less  complex  days  it  may  have 
been  true  ;  one  ventures  to  doubt  whether 
it  is  so  now,  I  think,  in  a  modern  marriage, 
it  is  more  essential  for  lasting  happiness  that 
the  man  and  woman  should  be  thoroughly 
good  comrades,  "  chums,"  with  thoughts  and 
points  of  view  in  common,  than  that  they 
should  be  unreasoningly  consumed  by  a 
grand  passion,  any  more  than  the  faculty  of 
eating,  drinking,  or  sleeping  should  absorb  us. 
Life  is  now  too  interesting,  too  full  of  many 
things,  and  satiety  gives  the  natural  lie  to 
this  pernicious  doctrine  ;  and  it  is  this  in- 
tense, morbid  accentuation  of  sex  and  the 
sex-faculty  which  gives  an  unpleasant  savour 
to  so  many  modern  books. 

And  surely  there  is  something  illogical,  un- 
sound, out  of  proportion  in  the  theory.  Passion, 
unless  sanctified  by  being  the  last  test  and 
highest  inspiration  of  individual  Love,  is 
but  an  emotion  which  we  share  with  the 
brute  creation  ;  and  its  satisfaction  without 
the  spiritual  transmutation  of  Love,  either 


THE    ETERNAL   FEMININE       143 

in  marriage  or  out  of  it,  is  a  prostitution  of 
man  or  woman.  It  is  not  an  instinct  to  be 
brooded  over,  accentuated  by  morbid  imagina- 
tion, screamed  out  to  the  world. 

When  in  God's  order,  and,  thank  Heaven 
I  can  still  believe,  in  Woman's  order,  it  follows 
in  the  wake  of  a  great  and  holy  love,  as  natur- 
ally as  the  sunlight  follows  the  dawn,  it  leads 
on  to  maternity  and  joy,  and  there  is  nothing 
to  be  said  to  the  gaping  world.  Even  when 
it  is  the  outcome  of  an  unhappy  love,  in 
man  or  woman  doomed  ever  to  be  m&teless, 
if  one  could  probe  the  depths  of  the  lonely 
heart,  I  think  it  would  not  be  unsatisfied 
passion  which  would  be  found  to  cause  the 
bitterest  pangs. 

I  once  knew  a  woman, — she  is  long  since 
dead,  Peace  to  her  soul ! — to  whom  Love 
came  suddenly,  silently.  It  was  a  love  never 
destined  to  fruition,  and  she  bore  it  hidden 
deep  within  her  heart  through  all  her  years. 
Yet,  though  no  one  held  the  key  to  the  secret, 
that  hidden  love  dominated  her  whole  future 
existence,  and  perfected  her  character,  so  that 
all  men  saw  the  change  in  her.  The  hard  grew 
easy,  since  the  beloved  one  lived  ;  her  life 
was  a  difficult  one,  but  her  courage  never 
failed  ;  she  could  smile  at  all  that  Fate  could 


144        A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

do  to  her,  since,  somewhere,  he  breathed  God's 
air ;  she  held  all  things  with  a  light  hand  ; 
it  was  easy  to  be  unselfish,  to  seek  the  good 
of  others,  and  nothing  unworthy  could  be 
spoken  or  done,  since  it  would  withdraw  her 
soul  farther  from  his  in  God's  sight.  She 
was  of  a  nervous  temperament,  but  one 
thought  of  that  hidden  love  had  power  to 
brace  her  to  a  perfect  self-control. 

The  Religion  of  the  Beloved  !  It  was  strange 
to  watch.  Yet,  stranger  still,  this  woman 
was  uncommonly  clear-eyed ;  she  held  no 
illusions  regarding  him,  but  she  looked  beyond 
the  imperfect  man  to  the  soul  as  God  had 
made  it,  and — she  loved  him.  To  have 
suggested  that  there  was  aught  of  passion  in 
that  love  would  have  seemed  like  desecrating 
a  shrine.  Even  if  Destiny  had  been  kinder 
he  might  never  have  roused  that  side  of  her 
nature ;  it  slumbered  deeply,  it  had  never 
been  awakened.  Yet — indeed  she  loved  him. 
Well — she  died,  with  her  secret  undiscovered  ; 
and  now  he  too  has  passed  on,  and  they  are 
both  forgotten.  After  all,  at  best  we  but 
grasp  a  comrade's  hand  in  the  darkness ; 
perhaps,  beyond,  in  the  light  of  heaven,  those 
two  souls  may  look  into  each  other's  eyes 
and  understand.  I  believe  that  the  highest 


THE    ETERNAL    FEMININE      145 

love  is  above  and  beyond  all  mere  sex.  David 
had  dim  knowledge  of  this  truth  when  he 
mourned  for  the  one  who  had  loved  him  with 
"  a  love  passing  the  love  of  women."  And, 
"  In  heaven  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given 
in  marriage,  but  are  as  the  angels  of  God." 

And  those  whose  lot  it  is  to  be  celibate 
have  this  consolation,  that  marriage  is  but 
a  small  matter  after  all.  The  individual, 
distinct  life  of  the  soul  is  the  great  thing  to 
be  striven  for ;  that  it  may  grow — broad, 
free,  and  worthy  of  its  high  destiny.  If, 
perchance,  it  may  be  our  lot  to  join  hands 
with  a  congenial  comrade,  so  much  the  better  ; 
but  Life  is  not  marriage,  nor  child-bearing, 
nor  brief  ecstasy  of  sexual  union,  but  the 
growth  of  the  soul.  For  we  take  not  hus- 
band nor  wife  nor  child  out  with  us  when  we 
go  hence,  but  pass  out  into  The  Unknown  ; 
solitary,  alone,  even  as  we  came  hither. 

For  distressful  Woman — her  salvation  must 
come  from  within.  No  one  can  help  her, 
no  outward  "  rights  "  really  aid.  It  is  char- 
acter, character  alone  that  can  raise  her  to 
the  noble  heights  for  which  she  is  now  half- 
blindly  groping.  Educate,  elevate,  make  calm, 
strong,  wise  ;  and  the  rest  will  follow,  as  the 
light  the  day. 

10 


146        A   SHADOWED    PARADISE 

As  Joubert  wrote,  "  Make  Truth  lovely, 
and  do  not  try  to  arm  her — mankind  will 
then  be  far  less  inclined  to  contend  with  her." 

Perhaps,  one  day,  Woman  may  come  to 
realise,  with  a  great  surprise,  the  fact  which 
has  lain  hidden  all  the  time,  that  her  de- 
liverance is  thus.  Let  her  only  make  herself 
wise,  tender,  strong,  well-poised  in  all  things 
pertaining  both  to  heart  and  brain  ;  neither 
borne  along  by  wild  gusts  of  hysteria,  nor 
confusing  the  shadow  with  the  substance ; 
deeply  realising  that  in  the  attainment  of 
her  highest  hopes,  "  in  quietness  and  con- 
fidence "  shall  lie  her  "  strength."  Not  by 
clamour,  nor  by  spasmodic,  ill-directed  force, 
nor  by  antagonising  Man ;  but  by  quiet, 
resistless  proof  of  her  fitness  for  the  greater 
by  her  perfect  fulfilment  of  the  less.  The 
waiting  time  may  be  long ;  but  even  as 
leaven  silently,  surely,  leavens  the  whole,  so 
Man's  judgment  will  be  won,  his  sense  of 
justice  aroused,  and  what  he  would  not 
render  to  coercion  he  will  freely  yield  up 
to  worth,  and  will  seat  Woman  to  reign 
beside  him  on  the  throne  of  the  World — no 
longer  a  goddess,  a  slave,  or  a  puppet,  but 
an  acknowledged  equal,  a  counterpart,  and 
a  completion. 


THE    ETERNAL    FEMININE       147 

Dear,  dear !  How  rainy  weather  makes 
one  prose  ! 

The  rainy  spell  is  over,  and  all  nature 
is  rejoicing  in  the  sunshine  once  more. 
We  have  taken  our  chairs  and  our  work 
into  the  disused  gravel  quarry  beside  our 
house,  and  there,  delightfully  shielded  from 
the  north  and  the  east,  we  sit  sunning 
ourselves  amongst  a  thick  growth  of  gorse 
and  brambles  and  baby  pines.  The  warm 
air  is  alive  with  tiny  midges,  the  strands  of 
fine  spider's  web  glint  in  rainbow  tints  from 
bush  to  bush,  and  a  big,  contented  humble- 
bee  —  a  "  yellow-breeched  philosopher  " — is 
bumming  his  deep  Te  Deum  around  us, 
while  a  stray  working  bee,  coaxed  out  from 
his  winter  rest  by  the  brightness  and  warmth, 
is  hovering  about  the  golden  gorse  blossoms, 
in  search  of  a  sip  of  nectar.  Away  from  the 
sun,  through  the  clump  of  pines  behind  the 
quarry,  the  sky  is  an  intensely  deep,  soft 
blue — a  true  southern  tint — and  although  it 
is  late  autumn,  I  require  no  jacket,  and  lounge 
luxuriously  in  my  deck-chair,  with  my  panama 
tilted  over  my  eyes. 

In  front  of  us,  beyond  the  common,  stretches 
the  blue,  scintillating  sea,  dotted  here  and 


148        A    SHADOWED   PARADISE 

there  with  tiny  fishing  smacks,  whose  big, 
picturesque  sails  of  burnt  umber,  and  Vandyke 
brown,  and  dull  red,  add  a  pleasant  note  of 
colour  to  the  scene.  There  will  be  espadilhas 
for  our  supper  to-night ! 

It  is  all  too  blissful  for  me  to  be  strenuous. 
My  book  falls  into  my  lap,  and  I  am  content 
only  to  enjoy.  Whimsically,  to  deepen  my 
content,  I  picture  the  London  streets  to-day  : 
the  heavy,  leaden-grey  atmosphere,  through 
which  no  ray  of  sun  can  pierce,  the  muddy, 
unlovely  thoroughfares,  the  blue-nosed,  shiver- 
ing, hurrying  crowds,  the  straining  of  the 
laden  horses  along  the  greasy  roads,  the 
rattle  and  ill-odour  of  the  huge  omnibuses  ; 
the  noise,  the  feverish  unrest,  the  sordidness 
and  futility  of  so  much  of  the  effort  !  Now, 
had  I  but  the  cap  of  Fortunatus,  I  would 
wish  that  all  those  in  the  unhappy  multitude 
who  would  appreciate  beauteous  nature,  and 
warmth,  and  rest,  might  forthwith  be  trans- 
ported to  this  Elysium,  to  taste  with  us  the 
blessedness  of  the  simple  life,  and  for  once 
to  realise  "  the  things  that  matter." 

The  Philosopher,  to  whom  I  have  voiced 
this  altruistic  wish,  looks  vaguely  doubtful. 

"  Well — a     few    at    a    time,"    I    concede. 
"  A  chosen  few  !  " 


CHAPTER    XVI 

AUTUMN 

WHEN  I  awoke  this  morning  and  looked 
out  as  usual,  the  tide  was  low,  the  sea 
calm  and  swarming  with  the  boats  of  the 
fisher-folk,  all  engaged  in  some  mysterious 
occupation.  In  an  hour  or  two  they  had 
disappeared,  and  presently  the  ox-carts  came 
creeping  along  the  road,  laden  with  millions 
of  tiny  crabs  with  which  to  manure  the  maize- 
fields.  The  poor  little  crustaceans  are  scattered 
over  the  ground,  and  then  ploughed  alive  into 
the  soil,  waving  feebly  protesting  claws. 
The  odour  of  the  fields  for  weeks  afterwards, 
especially  under  the  strong  rays  of  the  mid- 
day sun,  reminds  one  of  a  double  concentration 
of  bad  cod-liver  oil,  and  their  neighbourhood  is 
to  be  shunned  by  those  of  sensitive  nostrils  ; 
but  they  seem  to  make  excellent  manure, 
and  their  use  is  general  here. 

There  is  a  beneficent  sense  of  autumn  in 

149 


150        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

the  air,  the  skies  are  a  clear  blue,  the  sun 
shines  mellowly,  and  a  gentle  freshness  in 
the  breeze  makes  all  activity  a  delight. 

These  simple  folk  are  now  engaged  in 
reaping  the  harvest  of  their  long,  laborious 
days.  The  maize  is  all  cut  or  being  cut ;  the 
great  sheaths  containing  the  grain  are  severed 
from  their  tall  stems,  and  girls  and  children 
squat  before  the  cottages  and  in  the  courtyards 
deftly  shelling  the  heads  of  maize  from  these 
coverings  ;  after  which  the  grains  are  flayed 
out  of  their  cones  with  primitive  wooden 
flails — long  sticks  with  revolving  beaters — 
and  spread  to  dry  in  the  sun  upon  the  open 
stone  floors  which  are  attached  to  each  home- 
stead. When  the  sun  has  wrought  this  last 
good  work  upon  them,  they  are  stored  in 
huge  white  wooden  chests,  and  the  family 
food  for  the  coming  year  is  assured.  There 
it  lies,  secure  to  hand  ;  naught  to  do  in  the 
winter  days  when  meal  runs  short,  but  for  the 
mae  to  take  a  small  sack  of  the  grain  upon 
her  head  and  away  to  the  miller's  to  get  it 
ground.  Then,  once  a  week  or  so,  there  is 
a  great  baking  of  maize-bread  ;  heavy,  un- 
fermented,  but  apparently  wholesome  and 
satisfying ;  and  the  milho  also  forms  the 
foundation  of  their  bean  and  cabbage  soup. 


AUTUMN  151 

Unfortunately  for  our  purse  The  Philosopher 
and  I  cannot  learn  to  enjoy  maize  in  any  form  ; 
but  it  is  a  valuable  food,  richer  in  fat  than 
wheaten  flour,  and  for  that  reason  we  occa- 
sionally conscientiously  include  it  in  our  soups. 

The  uses  of  this  wonderful  cereal  are  not 
ended  with  the  gathering  of  the  grain.  All 
the  dried  grassy  leaf  parts  are  trimmed  from 
the  long  cane-like  stems  and  collected  into 
neat  little  stacks  in  the  fields,  to  supply  the 
winter  fodder  for  the  oxen.  Dry,  unnourishing 
fare  it  appears  to  my  ignorant  eyes,  but  the 
great  patient  beasts  chew  it  up  appreciatively 
each  morning  and  evening,  and  their  good 
condition  and  capacity  for  long  labour  prove 
its  hidden  virtue. 

Thus  man  and  beast  are  fed  from  the  little 
patches  of  maize-fields,  and  the  tiny  crabs 
go  down  now  into  the  alien  element  to  make 
next  year's  crop  rich  and  succulent. 

And  for  those  so  poor  as  not  to  possess  or 
to  rent  even  the  smallest  strip  of  land  on 
which  to  grow  this  national  food,  the  form 
which  rural  charity  takes  is  usually  a  mugful 
of  the  grain,  emptied  into  the  beggar's  patch- 
work bag ;  and,  going  thus  from  door  to 
door  on  Sundays  and  festas,  these  unfortunates 
can  collect  quite  a  considerable  quantity. 


152       A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

Sown  between  the    maize-stalks  for  shade 
and  support,  are  the  beans  which  form  the 
only  other  staple  food  of  these  simple  children 
of  the  soil.     These  also  are  picked  when  ripe 
and  dried  for  winter  use.     Thus,  with  the  pines 
all  around  to  supply  wood  for  fuel,  with  the 
pine-needles  and  pine-cones  for  kindling,  with 
the   gorse   and    bracken   to   serve   for  litter, 
with  often  a  pig,  or  goat  and  fowls,  and  the 
maize  and  the  beans  grown  together  on  their 
little  patches  of  land,  for  food  for  themselves 
and  the  cattle,   with  the   grapes  from  their 
cottage    pergolas    serving    to    make    a    thin, 
sour   wine,   and   often   paying   their   rent   in 
kind,    these    country    folk    scarcely    seem    to 
know  the  need  of  money  or  shops.     I  am  no 
political  economist,  but  I  do  sometimes  wonder, 
watching    their    free,    simple,    hardy    lives, 
whether  this  is  not  the  happier  lot,  and  high 
wages  and  town  existence  a  mistake. 

An  advantage  of  our  "  Walden  "  is  that  it 
does  not  matter  what  clothes  one  wears. 
Here,  in  the  country,  where  one  rarely  sees 
any  shoes  or  stockings  other  than  one's  own, 
where  rags  are  treasured  even  when  they  are 
most  weather-stained,  mossy  and  threadbare,  or 
in  strips,  causing  their  serenely  unselfconsciou§ 


AUTUMN  153 

wearer  to  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  a  lively 
scarecrow,  even  one's  oldest  garments  are 
regarded  by  the  people  as  strange  and  luxurious 
possessions.  But  it  was  reserved  for  a  certain 
ancient  scarlet  wool  tam-o'-shanter  which 
I  love  and  cling  to,  to  confer  the  height  of 
distinction  upon  me. 

To-day,  after  a  sedentary  morning's  work 
at  our  several  tasks,  we  were  swinging  along, 
up  our  Happy  Valley,  laughing  and  singing 
snatches  of  songs,  as  our  childish  custom 
is  when  we  are  in  the  woods,  when  we 
were  recalled  to  more  suitable  behaviour  by 
the  peculiar  regard  of  a  small  boy  whom  we 
chanced  to  meet.  His  jaw  fell,  he  stood  trans- 
fixed, staring  at  me  with  a  wide-eyed,  awe- 
stricken  gaze.  Especially  did  he  seem  to  be 
overpowered  by  the  sight  of  my  head  covering. 

"  Well,  rapaz,"  inquired  The  Philosopher 
encouragingly,  "  what's  the  matter  ?  " 

The  boy,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on  me, 
drew  a  step  nearer  to  him  for  protection, 
hesitated,  and  at  length,  in  an  awed  whisper, 
faltered  out  :  "  Is — is  the  senhora  THE 
QUEEN  ?  " 

That  Portuguese  word  "  rapaz "  always 
appears  to  me  a  delightful  term  for  "  boy." 


154        A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

"  Eapaz  " — "  rapacious  " — how  it  hits  off  the 
exactly  suitable  definition  of  the  normal 
young  peasant  animal !  And  the  other  day 
I  happed  upon  a  perfectly  delicious  word  for 
our  term  "  quack," — "  matasanos,"  which, 
being  literally  interpreted,  means  "  kill-the- 
healthy  !  "  A  nation  using  such  words  must 
really  have  a  sense  of  quiet,  dry  humour  ! 

All  day  yesterday  Miguel  was  busy  gathering 
the  ripe  clusters  of  grapes,  which,  with  their 
dark  purple  bloom,  depending  from  amongst 
the  broad  green  leaves,  have  for  weeks  past 
made  our  farmyard  a  veritable  place  of  beauty 
— overhead,  if  not  below  ! 

Our  vines  are  old  and  uncared  for  ;  their 
thick  twisted  stems  climb  the  walls,  here 
and  there,  of  the  out-buildings  which  surround 
the  yard,  and  above,  upon  flat  supports  of 
wood  and  wire,  they  spread  their  branches 
across  and  interlace  their  tendrils,  forming  a 
complete  shade  from  the  glare  of  the  sun, 
while  permitting  a  soft  green  light  and  a 
sufficiency  of  air  to  percolate  below. 

Yesterday  these  branches  were  despoiled 
of  their  generous  yield  of  fruit,  and  in  the 
evening  we  were  privileged  to  witness  the 
ancient  process  of  "  treading  the  wine-press." 


AUTUMN  155 

Miguel,  with  his  trousers  rolled  up  to  his 
thighs,  stood  bare-footed  in  a  huge  wooden 
tub,  wherein  the  great  bunches  of  purple 
grapes  were  heaped.  Then  he  began  a  mono- 
tonous, high-stepping  tread,  gradually  crushing 
all  the  fruit  beneath  his  feet.  The  juice, 
thus  pressed  out,  began  to  fill  the  tub,  and 
the  stalks  and  skins  to  become  things  of  minor 
importance,  doomed  later  to  be  strained 
away.  For  an  hour  or  more  he  continued 
his  treadmill  performance.  It  did  not  look 
an  inviting  process,  nor  did  the  turgid,  greenish 
fluid  which  resulted  tempt  our  thirst.  But 
to-day  he  came  to  our  door,  bearing  a  Gar- 
gantuan mug  of  sparkling,  transparent  light 
crimson  juice,  which,  with  the  addition  of  a 
little  sugar,  tasted  really  good.  This  is  the 
fermenting  stage  :  later  on  it  will  not  appear 
so  attractive  to  our  English  palates ;  and 
when  it  is  ready  for  bottling,  it  will  be  darker, 
and  very  acid — the  "  vinho  verde  "  or  "  green 
wine  "  of  the  peasantry, ^which,  I  believe, 
is  quite  wholesome ;  though  we  decidedly 
prefer  the  "  vinho  maduro,"  or  "  ripe  wine." 


Whether  it  is  that  the  humble  berries 
ripen  at  a  season  when  the  national  fruit, 
the  grape,  is  so  plentiful  that  evenfchildren 


156        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

and  beggars  can  feast  their  full,  or  whether 
there  is  some  traditional  prejudice  against 
them  amongst  these  country  folk,  I  have  not 
discovered,  but,  though  the  high  hedges  of 
our  lanes  are  now  crowded  with  a  wealth  of 
the  biggest  and  most  luscious  blackberries, 
no  one  seems  to  appreciate  Nature's  bounty 
but  myself. 

To  me  they  are  just  a  glorious  treat,  and 
The  Philosopher  finds  me  now  but  an  un- 
satisfactory comrade  upon  his  walks ;  for 
no  sooner  has  the  dear  man  got  into  a  steady 
swing,  and  is  deep  in  some  illuminating  dis- 
quisition, than  he  finds  that  I  have  dropped 
behind,  Eve-like,  unable  to  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  some  specially  laden  bramble  of  ripe 
berries,  mutely  imploring  me  to  pick  them 
ere  they  drop  ignominiously  to  earth.  Hand- 
kerchiefs and  my  panama  are  filled,  while 
the  walk  grows  more  and  more  spasmodic, 
and  no  one  less  sweet-tempered  than  The 
Philosopher  would  endure  the  constant  in- 
terruptions. 

But  he,  like  all  good  people,  has  his  reward, 
when,  at  our  luncheon,  our  custard  or  rice- 
shape  is  smothered  by  a  crimson  mass  of 
fragrant,  steaming  fruit — making  a  feast 
worthy  of  the  gods  ! 


AUTUMN  157 

If  only  sugar  here  were  not  such  a  pro- 
hibitive price,  what  a  wealth  of  preserves  I 
would  make  for  the  winter  when  fruit  is 
scarce,  and  a  varied  diet  more  difficult  to 
achieve  ! 

As  it  is,  I  revel  in  the  present  abundance, 
with  as  little  care  for  the  future  as  the  wrathful 
blackbirds  in  the  bushes  whose  repast  I  disturb, 
or  as  the  big  green  lizards  who  lie  as  inanimate 
as  the  branch  they  cling  to,  until  my  eye 
lights  upon  them,  when  there  is  just  one  sharp, 
lightning  movement,  and — they  are  not. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

CHRISTMAS 

IT  is  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  The  Christ. 
When  I  woke  this  morning  the  world  outside 
my  open  window  was  bathed  in  bright  sun- 
shine ;  yesterday's  wind  had  lulled  ;  the  little 
waves  curled  whisperingly,  lazily  up  the  shore  ; 
a  beneficent  calm  brooded  over  all  things,  and 
I  lay  motionless,  entering  into  the  great  peace 
of  Nature. 

Presently,  borne  over  the  pine-covered  val- 
leys and  hills  behind  the  house,  came  the  deep, 
sonorous  tones  of  the  church  bell.  Too  solemn 
and  ancient  a  bell  to  do  aught  but  toll  forth 
its  message  in  stately,  measured  tones,  its 
Gregorian  note  harmonised  with  the  calm 
radiance  of  the  morning  as  no  merry  chimes 
could  have  done.  Its  deep,  musical  vibrations 
penetrated  and  mingled  with  the  holy  quiet, 
the  ineffable  beauty  of  the  virgin  day,  without 
disturbing  the  all-pervading  serenity.  It  bore 

158 


CHRISTMAS  159 

into  one's  heart  the  realisation  that  this  day 
was  as  no  other  day  of  the  year  ;  that  this 
was  the  sacred  festival  of  the  anniversary  of 
the  birth  of  The  Christ,  and  one's  pulses  were 
not  stirred  by  it,  but  rather  quietened  into 
holy  awe. 

For,  indeed,  the  bell  proclaimed  a  great 
mystery,  a  momentous,  world-concerning  fact — 
a  fact  which  has  been  miscomprehended  and 
mangled  and  mixed  with  falsehood,  super- 
stition, and  banality  as  no  other  fact  has  been 
since  the  world  began.  Words  which  were 
spiritual,  mystical,  holy,  have  been  degraded 
into  the  mud  of  the  grossest  material  misinter- 
pretation. Behind  their  presumed  authority 
the  vilest  passions  of  mankind — jealousy, 
hatred,  murder,  lust,  ambition — all  have 
screened  themselves  in  the  past,  while  in  the 
present  the  pure,  selfless,  gentle  figure  of  The 
Christ  is  obscured  by  multiple  thicknesses  of 
foolish,  man-woven  webs  of  doctrine,  of  ritual, 
of  sect,  of  conventionality  and  expediency. 

Where  does  there  live  a  single  follower  of 
Christianity  as  Christ  preached  it  ?  Where 
can  one  find  a  single  Christian — that  is,  a  man 
who  wholly  directs  his  life  by  the  clear,  simple 
rules  given  by  The  Christ  for  the  daily  conduct 
of  His  followers  ?  Who  dares  affirm  that  he 


160         A  SHADOWED   PARADISE 

is  one  ?  Modern  society  could  not  continue  to 
exist  if  those  who  fill  Christian  churches,  who 
so  glibly  mouth  the  Belief  and  sip  the  Wine 
and  eat  the  Bread  of  Remembrance  set  them- 
selves honestly  and  wholly  to  act  according  to 
ten  of  the  clearest  precepts  given  by  their 
Master  for  the  ordering  of  their  lives. 

As  things  are,  we  daintily  pick  over  those 
precepts.  Some  that  are  convenient  we  elect 
to  follow  and  to  consider  as  essentials  ;  others, 
equally  emphatic  and  vital  when  they  issued 
from  the  lips  of  the  Great  Teacher,  we  agree 
to  ignore,  or  to  so  pervert  and  mingle  with 
petty  considerations  of  expediency  and  self- 
interest,  that  they  are  stultified  or  wholly 
annulled. 

Take,  for  example,  one  of  the  chief est  aims 
of  our  age — the  pursuit  of  wealth.  The  Great 
Teacher  distinctly  affirmed,  over  and  over 
again,  in  words  which  could  not  be  mistaken, 
that  riches  were  to  be  avoided,  that  wealth 
was  a  sin.  We  read  of  no  crime  for  which 
Dives  was  sent  to  the  Place  of  Condemnation, 
but  that  he  was  a  rich  man  and  indifferent  to 
the  needs  of  the  poor.  "  Lay  not  up  for 
yourselves  treasures  on  earth."  That  com- 
mand, literally  taken  (and  where  do  we  find 
authority  for  taking  it  otherwise  ?)  at  once 


CHRISTMAS  161 

condemns  our  whole  modern  system  of  banking 
and  investment.  So  greatly  did  The  Christ 
consider  that  wealth  stood  in  the  way  of  a 
man's  entry  into  "  the  kingdom  of  heaven  " 
that  He  said  it  would  require  a  miracle  for 
him  to  do  so,  but,  "  with  God  all  things  are 
possible."  The  inference,  that  therefore  there 
might  be  hope — even  for  your  modern  mil- 
lionaire. 

The  sight  of  the  words  I  have  quoted  brings 
back  to  my  memory  a  quaint,  unconscious 
illustration  of  my  point. 

One  grey  afternoon  in  England,  when  the 
rain  fell  in  monotonous  streams  outside  and 
the  near  distances  were  hidden  by  mist  which 
there  was  no  wind  to  disperse,  The  Philosopher 
and  I  were  amusing  ourselves,  up  in  an  old 
attic,  by  turning  out  an  ancient  chest  of 
family  papers  which  had  been  stored  up  there 
out  of  the  way  and  long  forgotten. 

Queer  old  documents  were  there,  yellow  with 
age  and  damp  :  leases  of  property  generations 
ago  run  out  and  annulled  ;  deeds  of  partner- 
ships which  had  long  since  been  dissolved  by 
death  ;  old  legal  letters  and  agreements 
regarding  controversies  which  Time  has  made 
of  no  account ;  a  few  family  letters,  written 
in  prim  early  Victorian  phraseology,  sand- 

11 


162         A  SHADOWED    PARADISE 

wiched  between  worm-eaten  ledgers  and 
parchments  ;  and  then  I  happed  upon  an  old 
pocket-book,  half  diary,  half  religious  calendar, 
with  an  apt  text  heading  the  daily  record  of 
the  year.  I  examined  its  fly-leaf  ;  it  had 
belonged  to  The  Philosopher's  guardian,  a 
martinet  of  the  bad  old  school,  who  had  made 
my  poor  man's  orphaned  boyhood  a  weariness 
to  him,  and  who  had  successfully  combined 
the  strictest  religious  pretensions  with  a  very 
keen  eye  to  the  business  of  this  world.  A 
glimpse  of  human  nature  has  ever  greater 
interest  to  me  than  the  most  beautiful  ab- 
stractions. I  turned  the  leaves  and  read  out 
stray  jottings  for  the  edification  of  the  kneeling 
Philosopher  as  he  groped  farther  in  the  chest. 

"  '  Sell  all  that  thou  hast  and  give  to  the 
poor,  and  thou  shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven.' 
.  .  .  Lent  John  Cartwright  £150  at  seven  per 
cent." 

"  '  Set  your  affections  on  things  above.'  .  .  . 
To-day  sent  Polly  and  Grand  Turk  out  to  grass. 
Rode  Thunderer  to  Epsom.  Rain." 

"  *  Give  to  him  that  asketh  of  thee  and  from 
Mm  that  would  borrow  of  thee  turn  thou  not 
away.'  .  .  .  Went  to  Pinch  &  Skinner's  to- 
day, and  arranged  to  forcelose  the  mortgage  on 
Mary  Virtue's  property.  Very  cold  weather." 


CHRISTMAS  163 

"  *  Love  ye  your  enemies  and  do  good  and 
lend,  hoping  for  nothing  again.'  .  .  .  Renewed 
loan  to  J.  C.  for  three  months  from  this  date 
at  ten  per  cent." 

And  so  on — page  after  page  of  the  most 
amusing  or  most  tragical  inconsistency,  accord- 
ing to  one's  point  of  view.  Indubitably  the 
correct,  white-haired,  respected  citizen  who 
pencilled  the  notes  was  conscious  of  no 
incongruity  nor  of  any  subject  for  humour. 
.  •  •  •  • 

And  what  a  misleading  jargon  of  idolatry 
and  superstition  has  grown  up  around  the 
beautiful,  simple  personality  of  The  Master  ! 

The  Great  Heart  of  the  World,  the  im- 
perfectly comprehended  Source  of  All  Good, 
selected  One  of  His  elder  children,  One  Who, 
nearer  to  Himself,  individualised  a  greater 
share  of  His  perfection,  and  sent  Him  to  us 
cruder,  more  distant  children  to  teach  and  to 
help  us,  to  explain  His  and  our  Father's  nature 
and  will.  His  one  selfless  aim  was  to  reveal 
that  gracious  mutual  Father  to  our  mistaken 
souls.  The  one  prayer  He  taught  us  was  a 
confident  childlike  petition  to  that  Father. 

What  a  number  of  futile,  mistaken  pre- 
sumptions He  had  to  persuade  us  to  unlearn  ! 
Centuries  of  misconception,  of  foolish,  childish 


164         A  SHADOWED   PARADISE 

fearfulness  of  a  terrible  bogey  whom  we  had 
set  up  to  scare  ourselves.  That  jealous; 
revengeful  God  Who  must  perforce  be  appeased 
by  brutal  sacrifice,  Who  had  all  power,  yet 
Who  let  His  creatures  stumble  and  fall  in 
their  blindness  and  then  mouthed  grimly  over 
their  destruction  was  of  a  nature  and  a  morality 
which  we  should  not  tolerate  in  a  fellow-man. 
Reflection  must  either  bring  despair  or  revolt. 

From  all  this  horror  of  misapprehension 
The  Christ  drew  us  gently  back  to  the  con- 
ditions of  perfect  childhood,  and  revealed  to 
us  The  Source  of  Being.  Whom  we  name  God, 
as  a  tender,  beneficent  Father,  near  to  us  all 
in  perfect  understanding  of  our  frailty,  de- 
siring nothing  from  us  but  love  and  obedience 
to  Himself  and  kindness  and  consideration  to 
our  brethren.  He  taught  us  not  to  fight, 
not  to  be  greedy,  to  be  thoughtful  for  others' 
comfort  in  preference  to  our  own,  to  hasten  to 
the  assistance  of  any  brother  who  stumbled 
and  hurt  himself,  to  yield  to  our  fellows  the 
best  things,  not  rudely  to  clutch  them  for 
ourselves,  and  to  be  ever  meek  and  gentle, 
unselfish  and  helpful. 

Simple,  simple  rules  of  conduct,  such  as  any 
elder  brother  might  well  quote  as  a  wise 
parent's  commands  to  a  number  of  younger 


CHRISTMAS  165 

children  going  to  play  together  in  their  Father's 
garden.  And,  as  individuals  and  as  nations, 
how  have  we  obeyed  ?  Let  the  intervening 
centuries,  with  their  dark  record  of  hatred, 
bloodship,  lust,  and  greed,  make  answer. 

Thus  our  conduct  ;  and  how  grotesque  in 
foolishness  have  been  our  methods  of  com- 
munication with  that  Father  "  in  Whom  we 
live  and  move  and  have  our  being."  Because 
the  temporary  veil  of  flesh  hid  Him  we  doubted 
whether  He  was  within  earshot  of  the  voice  of 
our  soul ;  so  we  began  to  entreat  that  dear 
Elder  Brother  to  speak  to  Him  for  us.  Soon, 
growing  more  timorous,  and  forgetting  our 
Brother's  kindly,  simple  nature,  many  of  us 
besought  His  earthly  mother  to  convey  our 
wishes  to  Him  ;  and,  later,  drifting  still  farther 
from  the  fearless  straightforwardness  of  the 
child,  we  selected  those  among  us  whom  we 
considered  our  best  models  of  good  behaviour, 
and  requested  them  to  beseech  The  Virgin  to 
intercede  with  The  Son  to  entreat  The  Father  f 
Then,  forsooth,  we  came  to  fear  that,  even 
with  all  this  mediation,  Our  Father  might  not 
care  to  hear  His  children  speaking  out  their 
hearts  to  Him  in  their  own  spontaneous, 
natural  way  ;  so  set  little  phrases  of  supplica- 
tion were  composed,  to  be  reiterated  over  and 


166         A   SHADOWED   PARADISE 

over  again  until  they  became  a  meaningless 
patter,  requiring  no  thought  nor  effort  of  the 
soul,  with  long  invocations  which  gradually 
hynoptised  away  all  sense  of  personal  converse 
with  a  real,  vital,  present,  listening  Father. 

So,  farther  and  farther  have  we  strayed 
from  the  grand  simplicity  of  the  Christ-message 
until  surely  we  need  a  fresh  Christ  to  come  to 
turn  us,  volte-face,  back  into  the  old  plain 
paths,  to  the  attitude  of  little  children  again 
.at  the  feet  of  a  loving,  understanding  Father. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

FAREWELL  ! 

THE  year  has  ended  and  the  days  are  growing 
few  now.  Time's  thread  is  wearing  very  thin, 
as  I  turn  to  this  last  unwritten  sheet.  I  must 
not  wait  to  write  more,  but  must  fasten 
the  loose  papers  together,  and  have  done 
with  it. 

My  fingers  move  lingeringly  about  the 
little  pile,  reluctant  to  finish  my  task.  What 
a  queer  little  book  it  makes  !  An  inconsequent 
medley  of  thought  and  observation,  of  memories 
and  simple  happenings.  Yet  inasmuch  as  it 
is  made  up  of  true  pages  torn  from  the  Book 
of  Life,  it  may  perhaps  have  interest  for 
some.  I  wonder  whether  it  will ! 

At  any  rate  it  has  been  a  solace  to  me  to 
write  it,  and  from  behind  my  veil  of  anonymity, 
here,  during  these  last  days  in  my  "  Walden," 
to  take  the  world  into  my  confidence  and  to 
tell  it  what  I  pleased.  Whatever  happens,  I 
167 


168        A    SHADOWED    PARADISE 

shall  have  said  my  say.     But  the  end  has  come 
now. 

Go  thou  then,  little  book,  that  has  been  my 
recreation  and  pleasure  throughout  these  last 
sweet,  sad  months.  Even  as  Noah  sent  out 
the  dove  from  the  Ark,  so  I  send  you  forth 
across  the  wide  waters  into  the  great  Un- 
known, to  see,  perchance,  if  there  is  any  olive- 
leaf  of  hope  with  which  you  may  return  to 
me.  Go,  and  may  all  beneficent  influences 
speed  thy  quest ! 


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